


Just Like Ice on the Dune

by neveralarch



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2014 MLB season, 2014 World Series, Alternate Universe - Magic, Friendship is Magic, Gen, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is feeling good. At least, he's trying pretty hard.</p><p>(Or: the magical story of Tim Lincecum and Hector Sanchez's friendship.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring Training, 2014

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophiahelix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/gifts).



> Happy yuletide, sophiahelix! Everything is finally present and correct, haha. Your prompt apparently unlocked the magical epic of Tim Lincecum and Hector Sanchez that had been hiding in my brain - I hope you like it, even though it's not exactly what you asked for. Or, it's pretty long, hopefully there's something in here that you'll like.
> 
> Huge thanks to inkstrangle for truly amazing last-minute beta work, which involved reading this entire thing about three days before it was due. Also thanks to papianista for pointing me in Ink's direction and to bessyboo for being my baseball buddy and dealing with my texts about Lincecum the sports wizard. And thanks to Malina, who gave me the initial suggestion to write an AU where Lincecum was Snape's secret son. I did not write that AU.
> 
> This fic contains canon injuries and illness, recreational drug use, and a lot of swearing. Let me know if you need further details.

  
[-](http://blog.sfgate.com/giants/2014/02/18/photos-sf-giants-pitchers-and-catchers-report-to-spring-training/#photo-407629)\--  
[--](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/2/18/5420554/tim-lincecum-mustache-spring-training-pictures/in/5207607)  


"Feeling good," hums Tim to himself. "Feeling good, feeling good, feeling-"

"Hey, Tim!" shouts a reporter. "How you feeling?"

"Feeling good!" Tim calls, and keeps walking.

He does, right? How could he not? Spring training, bounce in his step, fresh glove on his hand, cactuses all over the place. He loves this time of year. The spring is full of promises. Okay, sure, sometimes promises aren't kept. Sometimes you're cruising along on hope and youth and then the bottom just fucking falls out on you, but—

Sanchez slaps Tim on the back as he walks toward the bullpen. "How you feeling?"

"Good!" chirps Tim and grins until his jaw clicks.

Sanchez smiles back. "What happened to your face, man?"

"What?" Tim touches his face, trying to figure it out. Does he have a nosebleed?

"That thing." Sanchez gestures at his own general nasal region, which has Tim checking again for blood. "You know, the moss stuff. It's growing on your face."

"My moustache?" Tim brushes that, carefully, trying to dislodge any weird stuff that's gotten caught in it.

"No, I think it—" Sanchez leans in, peering at him. "Okay, wait, okay. I see. That's a really shitty moustache."

Tim tries to kick him in the shin, and Sanchez flees to his side of the bullpen. Tim contemplates tossing his brand-new glove at him, but he doesn't want to scuff it up.

Let Sanchez go. Tim just focuses on clearing his mind, letting the last couple seasons wash off of him. This year's going to be different. This year he's going to be back. He sets the glove down and stretches, touching his toes, popping his shoulder. He leans forward, kicking his right leg back and stretching his arms out for balance.

"Hey," says Buster, and Tim nearly falls over.

"Hi," says Tim, carefully recovering his balance. "How's it going?"

"It's going good." Buster doesn't bother to hide his grin. "I'm glad to get back to the field. What about you?"

"Good, good." Tim swings his arms a little. "You know me. I'm always good."

Buster nods. "Listen, are you planning to work tonight?"

Tim glances around, but the reporters are at a safe distance, distracted by the intensity of Bumgarner's spring beard. "Depends. You got something for me to work on?" 

Buster shrugs. "They got me a new catcher's mask, kneepads. There's a couple bats I've never used. I think Bochy's actually taking up an equipment collection for you."

Tim sighs. "In that case I'm probably working every night this week."

Buster slaps him on the back and heads off to the other side of the bullpen. "By the way," he calls over his shoulder. "You've got something on your face."

"Go fuck yourself," says Tim, which is a great time for the pitching coach to show up.

"It's the great Posey-Lincecum feud." Righetti settles a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Starting up on day one, huh? Am I pairing you with Sanchez for bullpen?"

"I'm not feuding with Buster," says Tim. "I don't feud."

"You're always feuding with _somebody_ , Timmy." Righetti smirks. "Usually yourself."

Tim shakes his head. "I'm at peace with the world and myself. I love all of my teammates. I'm feeling good."

Righetti peers at him and then shrugs. "That'd be a nice change." He sets off for the bullpen, propelling Tim in front of him.

\---

Tim likes the sound of a ball thumping into the catcher's glove. Most satisfying sound in the world.

He's feeling it today. Bullpen went great, he was changing it up, trying some stuff, everyone looked happy. Spring training is full of promises.

"Hey, Timmy?" Bochy catches Tim in the locker room, still wearing his uniform. "What are you up to tonight? Got any plans?"

"Buster said you had some stuff for me to work on," says Tim.

"Well, only if you have time," says Bochy. "I didn't want to assume, but if you didn't mind staying a little late—"

Tim doesn't mind, because getting the gear fixed up is important and it needs to get done sooner or later. He doesn't like it when Bochy dances around the subject, though, making it seem like this is all up to what Tim wants and not what the team needs. 

"It's fine." Tim tries to turn gritted teeth into a smile. "I can stick around."

Tim waves goodbye as most of the team heads out of the locker room for early dinner, filing out until it's just Tim, the equipment manager Murph, and some of the non-roster hopefuls that have been pressed into service carrying stuff. Tim digs his old black hat out of his locker and sits down, trying to arrange himself into a lotus position. He gives up, as usual, and just ends up cross-legged.

He closes his eyes and feels for it.

"What's he doing?" hisses a kid. Tim can't remember any of their names yet. Well, except Brett.

"Be quiet and you'll see something fun," says Murph. "Tim, you ready?"

"Give me a second," mutters Tim. He breathes in, out, smells fresh grass and dirt and leather. Hears the thump thump thump of baseballs hitting gloves. The swish of a bat through the air. Feels the thrum of anticipation from the crowd, all of it flowing up from the floor of the clubhouse, collecting into him. His muscles burn a little, the stretch of a workout after a long winter break.

"Okay," says Tim at last. "Give me something."

They hand him a bat and Tim gives it good contact, a smooth swing. Takes a glove and gives it a deep pocket to grab balls and keep them from slipping away. He casts strength on helmets, protection on shin-guards and sureness on batting gloves. It's mechanical, after a little while, as Tim remembers the rhythm of it. Take the equipment, feel what it wants to do, make it better at its purpose.

It's nice to be so good at something you don't even have to think about it.

They hand him a cleat and Tim cracks his eyes open. "What am I supposed to do with one shoe?"

Brett gives him that weird baby-Bochy smile. "Pagan wants to be really sure that he won't slip."

Which, fine, no one likes being injured. Tim doesn't blame Pagan for wanting a little extra insurance. But—"I really should have both shoes. This is just going to make him lop-sided."

"He said he doesn't trust magic by a guy with a glued-on moustache," says Brett, half-hesitant, half-gleeful, "but he figured he could risk one shoe."

"I'm not shaving," says Tim. "And I'm going to curse the spikes off of this thing unless someone gets me the other—"

Murph hands him the other shoe, hand over his face to hide his smile.

Tim keeps his eyes open as he gives the cleats grip and surety and speed. The light flares up around his hands, orange and warm, sinking into the spikes.

As it leaves him, Tim suddenly becomes aware of his body. His knees and back ache, his mouth is dry, his head is buzzing. Who needs alcohol when you can get hungover all on your own?

"Time to call it a night." Tim leans back, resting his head against the cool metal of the lockers. "Where are we at, Murph?"

"Got through all of the bats, most of the gloves." Murph thinks about it. "Some personal stuff left. Buster and Hector's gear."

"I'll need a whole night just for those," says Tim. "But I think I can get everything done over the next couple days." He holds out a hand and one of the newbies grabs it and hauls him up. Jose? Kyle? Tim will learn their names if they get added to the roster. Probably.

"Good work," says Murph. "I ain't seen anyone work that fast and well since... Willie Mays, I guess."

"You probably say that to all the witches," says Tim, but he can't help grinning.

"We're gonna get a drink," says maybe-Kyle, while Murph bustles away and the newbies start to gather their stuff. "You want to come? Tell us about how to make it in the big leagues?"

Tim looks at his fresh, open face and feels an overwhelming urge to shake him. "Nah," he says, lets his smile linger to take the sting out of it. "Magic is pretty draining, sorry." And it's true. In the end Tim's too worn out to even drive, and Murph gives him a ride to the hotel instead. Tim collapses into his bed, tosses his old hat on the nightstand, and dreams of pitches thumping into a catcher's glove.

\---

The next morning Tim is sore from his head to his toes. It takes him twenty minutes to get from bed to shower, and he's almost late to the training facility because he forgot his car wasn't at the hotel. He's trying to figure out the bus schedule when probably-Kyle spots him and offers a ride in his beat-up mini-Cooper. Tim crams himself in among fast food wrappers and dirty jerseys, and manages to answer about fifty questions about the 2012 World Series without thinking about his answers at all.

He doesn't feel any better on the field. His pitches won't come out right, and Righetti is trying to get Tim to fix something subtle in his mechanics that Tim absolutely cannot figure out.

"Okay, never mind." Righetti is getting exasperated. "We'll have to work on it tomorrow, your head's not here today."

"I'll get it," says Tim. "I'm just tired, you know? Explain it to me again."

"There's only so many ways I can explain it," says Righetti, but he starts miming the motion like he's a stretched-out and stiffer version of Tim. "Right here, where your foot comes up—"

Tim tries to follow the motion, but his eyes keep drifting out of focus. "Got it," he says anyway, following along with his own mimed pitch. Righetti sighs as Tim apparently mangles the lesson.

Tim's going to say something regrettable in a second. He can feel it building up, and he doesn't want to feud with Righetti but it would be really satisfying to start swearing at someone right now.

"So how're we doing over here?" Bochy strolls up and Tim swallows whatever he was going to say. "Rags? Timmy?"

"We'll get somewhere," says Righetti. "Eventually."

"Good, good." Bochy pats Tim on the arm. "Good to hear. Listen, Timmy, Murph says you wore yourself out last night being a team player."

Righetti raises his eyebrows. That's Bochy's favorite euphemism for magic. He used to call it 'special shit,' but he had to stop when a reporter heard him and assumed he was either talking about steroids or weed. 

"Being a team player is important," says Bochy. "I'm not going to deny that. Obviously not. But you gotta set your limits, right? You can always say 'you know what, Boch, that's about enough for me. I can't do any more tonight.' Right?"

"Right." Tim's fingers itch to get back to pitching.

"Preferably before you fall asleep on the field." Bochy pats Tim's arm again. "Breaks, that's what you need. You had a break yet?"

"No," says Righetti.

"In a minute," says Tim. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

Bochy nods, smiling, and lets Tim go. As he wanders off to chat with the potential rookies, Tim moves through his wind-up for the fiftieth time, trying to get his foot where Righetti wants it. An invisible ball soars across the plate.

"Better?" asks Tim.

Righetti makes a face. "We'll try it with a catcher next, get a better idea of where the ball ends up. After you sit down for fifteen minutes."

Tim chokes off those regrettable words again and walks off, shaking his knee out as he goes. Sanchez is over in the stands, lying uncomfortably across a couple seats. Tim sits down next to him, peering at his puffy closed eyes and stubbly face. "Long night?"

"I made lot of mistakes last night." Sanchez cracks an eye open. "I was trying to show the new guys good time, when they finally showed up. Heard you kept them busy."

Tim laughs. "Sure, they had to carry a bunch of stuff. I'm gonna do your gear tonight, I think."

Sanchez gives him a thumbs up. "Lot of work for one little pitcher."

"You're, like, an inch taller than I am." Tim leans back in his seat.

"I don't believe you." Sanchez gives Tim an assessing look. "You're, what, five-eight? Five-seven?"

Tim doesn't dignify that with a response. He feels like he's falling asleep with his eyes open, staring up at the blue sky.

"Tired little pitcher," says Sanchez. "You need an assistant."

A crow flies over the field, and Tim tracks it without moving his head. "If you see any loose witches, let me know."

"You miss having Zito around?" asks Sanchez.

Tim shrugs. Yeah, a little, but it's not like Zito would have helped with the equipment. That's not the way his magic ran. "What about you?"

"Dunno." Sanchez pushes himself to his feet. "I liked catching Zito, but I like catching you more. You think I'll get to do that again this season?"

"Depends what Bochy thinks, I don't know." Tim considers. "You know, Rags saw Buster making fun of my moustache and now he thinks we're fighting. Maybe if _you_ say some nice things about it they'll make us a battery."

A shadow falls across Tim's face, and he's looking right up into Sanchez. Who, okay, is probably a couple inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. And he's got some serious ink on his hands and arms that Tim doesn't remember from last year.

"You've got something on your knuckles," says Tim. Sanchez doesn't even look.

"It's a beautiful moustache." Sanchez settles his hat back on his head. "You could be on TV, with a moustache like that."

"I am on TV," says Tim. "Is that a dragon on your arm?"

"Yeah, but I mean real TV." Sanchez grins. "Like America's Most Wanted."

"Okay, you're fired," says Tim. "I'm only pitching to the new guy. Kyle."

"You mean Andrew?" Sanchez holds out a hand and pulls Tim to his feet. "Come on, you can help practice my pitch framing, maybe I can rescue some of your balls from the dirt."

Tim walks across the field behind Sanchez, stiffness easing with every step. Righetti glances at them and nods, but he's working with Brett now. That's fine. Tim could use a few minutes alone to figure himself out. 

The wind-up still feels wrong the first time, only okay the second. The third time feels good, though, and almost every time after that, as Tim's pitches thump into Sanchez's glove.


	2. Game 9

  
[ ](http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2014/04/09/lincecum-struggles-against-goldschmidt-again-giants-lose-to-d-backs/)

Tim's dad calls about five minutes after the ninth inning ends. Tim's not there to pick up, he's talking to media, so his dad calls about three more times at twenty-minute intervals until Pagan finally gets sick of Tim's awesome ringtone and tosses the phone at his head.

Tim's really glad he caught it, because he doesn't want to explain that injury to the trainer.

"Hi, Dad." He leans against the wall, watching the rest of the team pack up. "Listen—"

"I just wanted to check in," says his dad. "You didn't look so hot out there. Buster didn't look happy."

"I'm working on it," says Tim. "It's—"

"I thought Sanchez was catching for you?"

"Sometimes," says Tim. "Dad, I'm going to dinner in about five minutes—"

"So give me five minutes," says his dad. "I don't like the way Sanchez frames his pitches anyway. He came up way too fast, needed more time in triple-A."

"Uh-huh." Tim lets himself slide down the wall. He remembers when he used to talk to his dad for an hour, after a start. He still would, after a better one. Just not today. Seven runs in the game and all of them off Tim, he never wants to talk about this game ever again.

"Tim, are you listening to me?" asks his dad. "What were you thinking out there?"

"I'm pretty sure Paul Goldschmidt has an anti-Lincecum charm," says Tim. "I'm going to switch barbers, the old one must be selling my hair to the Diamondbacks."

Tim's dad goes quiet, the same way he always does when Tim mentions magic. Tim probably should know better.

"I don't need to hear excuses," says his dad.

"I'm just saying." Tim rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Turn on KNBR tomorrow, they'll be calling him my nemesis."

"Okay, okay." His dad pauses again, and Tim manages to get up from the floor. Sanchez is watching him from across the room, trying not to look concerned. Tim gives him a thumbs up.

"I just want you to feel good about your pitching," says his dad.

"I feel good," says Tim, a little louder than necessary. "Okay? I'm good."

Sanchez turns away. "Okay," says Tim's dad. "Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow morning, all right?"

"Yeah." Tim rolls his shoulders and makes himself smile, even if his dad can't see it. "Any moustache-growing tips? I'm still having trouble."

"Sure, here's a good tip. Just stop growing the damn—"

Tim hangs up. "Dads," he tells Sanchez.

"Dads," Sanchez agrees. "You got dinner plans? You can come with me and Romo."

"Sounds good to me." Tim shakes his heels as he leaves the locker room, trying to make sure the game doesn't follow him out.

If Goldschmidt really does have an anti-Lincecum charm, Tim's going to find it and burn it.

"I'm reading Harry Potter to my daughter," says Hector. "It's interesting."

"Goldschmidt isn't Voldemort," says Tim. "In case you were going that direction. And I don't have any weird scars on my head."

"No, no. You're not Harry Potter here," Hector explains patiently. "I'm Harry Potter. You can be Dumbledore. Old, wise—"

"I'm not old," says Tim. "I mean, I am wise, but—"

"You're thirty," says Hector. "Ancient."

"I'm twenty-nine," says Tim.

" _Ancient_ ," says Hector, not letting up. "Anyway, I'm learning to be magic from Harry Potter. I'm sick of pinch-hitting, I'm gonna make the magic battery happen."

"You can't learn to be magic from Harry Potter." Tim looks around as they emerge from the park and into the open air. "Where's Romo?"

"Maybe you needed extra help," says Hector. "But I think I'll be fine."

"I'm just saying, none of that stuff actually works," says Tim. "Like, if you say a spell nothing actually happens."

"Wingardium leviosa," says Hector, and knocks Tim's hat off his head.

By the time Romo finally shows up, Hector's hat is in the bay, Tim's hat has been accidentally stomped flat, and Tim's completely forgotten about Paul Goldschmidt.

"Should I come back later?" asks Romo. "Give you some time to finish this up?"

"Nah." Tim tries to knock the dust off his hat and then gives it up as a lost cause. "We're good."

"You're good," says Hector, peering out across the water. "I need a new hat."


	3. Game 19

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/4/16/5619698/giants-dodgers-brandon-belt-league-hicks-crawford)

Tim is _so done_ with this. Two shitty starts so far this season, and he had started to feel good about this one, the rhythm of it. His shoulders relaxed into the pitches, and the batters might be getting contact but they weren't hitting anything out of the park. It was all groundouts and flyballs. Tim thought he could be that kind of pitcher, the kind who gets out of an inning with three hits instead of nine strikes. He'd been replaced in sixth inning with no disasters, and settled in to watch with the hopes of the game finishing up fast so he could chill with his dog and talk to his dad and have an afterglow.

Instead, the game is in its twelfth inning. Go figure.

"Can you work some kind of magic to make this end?" whispers Sanchez. He's waiting for his turn to bat, jittery—he went in as a pinch hitter two innings ago, and his last at-bat didn't go very well. "Charm a ball to fly out of the park?"

"I thought you were going to Hogwarts so you could do this stuff yourself," says Tim. His muscles are tight and he wants a bath. And a nap. And dinner.

"I tried wingardium leviosa again," says Sanchez. "But the ump wouldn't let me have the ball."

Blanco hits a flyball and hopelessly runs for it before it gets caught. Crawford goes up to bat, hands catching nervously at his gloves.

"Come on," says Sanchez.

"It'll get me in trouble with the Dodgers," says Tim. It's not that you can't use magic to win a game, the same way it's not like you can't use batting skills to win a game. It's just that there's an unspoken line about how far you can go, especially with a close game. Tim doesn't really want to get somebody beaned tomorrow.

"I wanna go home," says Sanchez, wheedling. "Also you're an amazing player and your moustache looks like my grandfather's. Full. Handsome."

"Oh my god," mutters Tim, and holds his hand out for Sanchez's bat. He closes his eyes and lets everything flow out into it, all of his need for this game to end. Come on, come on, one hit—

Crawford singles, and Sanchez grabs his bat back on his way out of the dugout.

"Good luck!" calls Tim. Sanchez gives him a grin, edged with desperation.

Hicks grounds out, Crawford goes to second base, then to third on a wild pitch to Sanchez. And then Sanchez squares up to the plate and hits a single to win the game. Tim can feel the reverb of magic buzzing across the field, that extra bare edge, and then every player in the dugout is up and running to mob Sanchez, so glad to be done with this fucking game.

The phone in his pocket buzzes.

 **Kershaw:** WTF  
**Kershaw:** it's on Timmy Tim Tim. it's fucing on  
**Kershaw:** *fucking sorry

Tim groans.

Sanchez escapes the rest of the team, sprints into the dugout and nearly wipes out on the stairs. He picks Tim up and spins him until Tim can't keep from grinning.

"You and me!" Sanchez shouts. "You got the touch, I got the power!"

 **Kershaw:** I just realized it might be unclear but I am coming after you  
**Kershaw:** Maybe I'll bean you  
**Kershaw:** Maybe I'll curse you  
**Kershaw:** Maybe I'll just show up at your house in the middle of the night  
**Kershaw:** It'll be a fun little guessing game for you

"You just got me in so much trouble," Tim says in Sanchez's ear. He figures Sanchez won't notice, high on the win, but instead he stops, wide-eyed.

"What? With who? The magic police?"

"Worse," says Tim, finally reaching solid ground again. "The Dodgers."

 **Kershaw:** Ok Zack just said that texts are maybe admissable in court so the last five texts were DEFNTLY A JOKE hahaha  
**Kershaw:** haha  
**Kershaw:**   
**Kershaw:** hahaha

"Worth it?" asks Sanchez.

"Only if I don't get murdered," says Tim.

\---

Tomorrow's a night game, so Tim parleys with the Dodgers over breakfast. He drags Sanchez along, because this is definitely his fault.

They go to one of those Mel's Drive-Ins, which means that Tim gets to have a magic fight over pancakes. Worth it, probably.

Greinke is tense and silent, as usual, and Kershaw looks ready to throw a punch when he sits down in the booth, probably only restrained by Tim's wise decision to meet in public. He barely manages to give his order to the waitress before starting in on it.

"What's Sanchez doing here?" snaps Kershaw. "You bring your pawn to apologize?"

"No," said Tim, who definitely brought Sanchez to apologize. His strategy is changing quickly. "He's, uh. Part of my coven."

"Yeah?" Kershaw looks Sanchez up and down. "You don't look magic."

"It's only my first year," says Sanchez. He starts to say something about the sorting hat and Gryffindor but fortunately Kershaw talks over him. 

"And you're already using Performance Enhancing Magic," says Kershaw, winding himself up again. Tim's sure he's not this nasty to anyone without Giants on their jersey. "I oughtta report you both to the commissioner."

"Seriously?" Tim can't help grinning. "You won't."

"I—" starts Kershaw, but Greinke interrupts him.

"Clayton, don't be dumb."

"I'm not! All right, I won't." Kershaw fiddles with a table knife in a worrying way. "But I oughtta."

The commissioner doesn't want to know about magic. Every team in baseball is using some kind of magic enhancement, except maybe the Mets. If Selig starts getting complaints he'll either ignore them or decide now is the time to tear the whole house of cards down, same as with the steroid scandals.

No one wants to start that. Especially not another witch. So Tim waits for Kershaw to come up with a more reasonable demand.

"It just isn't fair," says Kershaw at last.

"We're all throwing magic around," says Tim. "Hell, the Dodgers have got both of you. The Giants just have me."

"And Sanchez," points out Greinke.

"He's still in training," says Tim, who'd already forgotten about that.

"I'm just saying, you don't push that hard when it's that close," says Kershaw. "The unwritten rules—"

"You weren't trying to tip the game?" Tim leans forward. "Be honest."

Kershaw goes red. Greinke chuckles.

"As much as we thought we could get away with," he says. "We wanted to go home too."

"I blew it on Ramirez's double," says Kershaw. "I gave Gonzalez a little something too, but Petit walked him. Petit's smart about that kind of thing."

Tim nods. "So you're not mad that I tried, you're just mad that I succeeded."

Kershaw's whole face screws up, and Greinke looks a little conflicted. Sanchez is looking between all three of them, like they're a puzzle.

The waitress brings their food. Sanchez, Kershaw and Greinke have all ordered very sensible egg white omelettes, with vegetables and lean protein. The right kind of thing to eat on a game day and definitely on their nutritional plan. Tim ordered chocolate-chip pancakes because he's an adult.

He's going back on his diet tomorrow. This afternoon, even.

"You pushed too hard," says Greinke. "We were just nudging."

"A double is nudging?" asks Sanchez, around a mouthful of eggs.

"Doesn't take much to get Ramirez to a double," says Kershaw, defensive.

"Okay, sure." Sanchez shrugs. "But maybe it don't take much to get me a single, you know?"

Kershaw gives him a look. "I guess we'll never know, will we? It _felt_ big. Bigger than a nudge."

And yeah, it had. Tim had felt the echoes in the dugout. It's why he'd felt guilty right off, why he'd come here prepared to apologize. Everyone uses magic, to prevent unlucky chances or get a few more good ones. But you don't create the performance. You don't try to win the game on magic alone.

Sanchez is a good hitter. Tim doesn't think magic was the only working here. But it was maybe a bit much.

"I didn't mean to push," says Tim, after he swallows some pancake. "I think I underestimated how tired I was of the game."

"You should be careful," says Greinke, abruptly. "Witches soak up magic more than you expect."

"Yeah, you cast lighter on someone if they're magic," says Kershaw. "You never cast on Zito, did you?"

"We didn't mesh like that," says Tim. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind. We good?"

"No, I'm still mad," says Kershaw. He doesn't sound like it, but he does sound like he took himself all the way to Mel's to have a fight and by god he'll have one.

"What you want?" asks Sanchez. "A lock of my hair to use in your spells? My fingernail clippings?"

"Keep your gross body stuff away from me." Kershaw taps his fork against his plate. "No magic tonight."

"Not happening," says Tim, glad he has an excuse and doesn't have to start any awkward conversations with Bochy. "You know I cast on equipment, not people. We can't get everything replaced in time, and the team wouldn't do it if we could."

"You cast on all of the equipment?" asks Greinke. "Even the back-ups? That's way too much work."

Tim nods, because it _is_. It's just necessary, it doesn't matter how much work it is.

"I mean no extra stuff," says Kershaw. "The bat and glove charms, leave them be. Leave everything be. Let it play out without any last-minute desperation spells."

"And in the meantime you do whatever you want?" asks Sanchez.

"In the meantime I might nudge things a bit," says Kershaw. "But if you want a magic duel, I can give you one."

"That's all right," says Tim. "I can give you a game, let you spread your wings."

To be honest, it's an easy decision. Tim doesn't go in much for in-the-moment spells—he'd prefer to just let his charms run on their own all the time. Let Kershaw wear himself out _nudging_ , and Tim will trust his equipment and his team. And also not get beaned in the head by an angry Kershaw. It wouldn't matter that neither of them are pitching tonight, Kershaw would probably sneak into the fucking dugout.

"Cool," says Greinke, and focuses on eating his omelette. Kershaw gives them a look and dumps ketchup on his omelette very threateningly before doing the same.

Tim has to do stairs when he gets back to the field, day-after-start workout, and he already knows the pancakes are going to feel like a rock when he does. He eats them anyway.

\---

They win anyway, thank god. It's a close game and for a minute Tim's worried that they'll go into extra innings and someone'll ask him to do something, but in the end it's all good. He can just sit back and relax.

"Am I actually magic?" asks Sanchez, suddenly right beside him, sometime in the fifth inning when it's still tense. Tim tries not to startle.

"I don't know," says Tim. "Are you?"

"You told Greinke and Kershaw I am," points out Sanchez. "I thought you were bringing me to apologize."

"I always think I might want to apologize to Kershaw until I actually talk to him," says Tim. "Look, I needed the back-up. You're good for that kind of thing."

"But _could_ I be magic?" says Sanchez.

"Anyone can be magic," says Tim. "Everyone _is_ magic. The rally enchiladas and dancing in the dugout and all the little superstitions. It's just not magic that can be shared."

"Okay." Sanchez nods. "How do you share?"

Out on the field Sandoval hits a flyball to right field and the inning's over. Around them the position players start grabbing gear and heading out.

"Don't worry about it," says Tim. "Concentrate on playing, let me deal with the weird stuff."

"I'm not doing much playing right now," says Sanchez, but he lapses into silence. Tim looks out at the field and lets his eyes drift out of focus, feeling the rhythm of Vogelsong's enchilada-fueled pitches and ignoring exactly where in the strike zone they land. Feels the nudge nudge nudge of Kershaw's magic on the field, little spells that affect the field more than the players. The grass makes balls hop the wrong direction, the basepaths try to catch at Belt's feet.

Tim lets Kershaw do whatever he wants, and the Giants still win. Take that, suckers.

"It's not nice to gloat," says Sanchez in the 9th inning, and Tim puts his nose in the air and gloats like hell.


	4. Game 29

[ ](http://aroundthefoghorn.com/2014/05/07/tim-lincecum-struggles/)

Away games are exhausting. Tim doesn't fly well, can't sleep on the plane. The rattle of equipment in the cargo hold keeps him awake, all of the gear confused by the sudden movement, the shift in environment rasping endlessly against his charms.

It's giving him a headache, and he starts the first away game. Awesome.

"Take a nap or something," mutters Hunter, in the seat next to Tim. He's got his eyes closed, the seat leaned all the way back and crushing Petit. Fortunately Petit seems to be fine with it, hands wrapping around the seat right above Hunter's head and hugging it to him like a pillow.

"Seriously," says Hunter. "It's a five-hour flight and you're keeping me awake."

"I'm not doing anything," says Tim.

"You're tapping," says Hunter.

"I'm not—"

"You are," says Petit. " _Silencio, Silencio_. People are trying to sleep."

" _I'm_ trying to sleep," says Hunter.

"You're a person," says Petit. "I think."

Tim frowns and grips the armrest to stop his fingers from drumming, tucks his feet under the seat. He pops his jaw a couple times to relax it and turns up the music on his headphones.

He's pitching soon, first game in Atlanta. When was the last time he faced the Braves? What's his plan? Are the bats going to be okay, down in the hold? They don't like the cold, the thin atmosphere, but usually the charms stick. He doesn't like the hotel in Atlanta, maybe he'll go out for breakfast. Track down some biscuits and gravy, or do the omelette thing that would fit his diet better. Is his fastball good enough for this? What if he has to re-do some of the bat charms at the last second?

"Okay," says Hunter, and gets up.

"I'm not doing anything," says Tim.

"You're ruining my positive vibes, man." Hunter doesn't look mad, just pitying. "You know being happy is good for you, right? This," he waves his hand at Tim's entire being, "is literally killing you."

"Wow," says Tim. "Thanks, buddy. That makes me feel a lot better."

Hunter sighs and wanders off toward the front of the plane. He's back in a couple minutes, propelling Sanchez down the aisle. "Here, I brought you your catcher. He's going to fix this, and I'm going to sleep." 

"Hi," says Sanchez, sitting down in Hunter's vacated seat. "You have headache?"

"I'm _fine_ ," says Tim. Behind him, Petit is sliding over so that Hunter can take his seat. Hunter leans the chair back, sighing.

Sanchez rattles his windbreaker at Tim. "I've got ibuprofen, aspirin, uh," he lowers his voice, "a little Vitalis—"

"That hair stuff?" Tim stops his leg jittering for a second to stare at Sanchez. "Why?"

"Hunter, sit your chair back up," says Pagan. "It's squashing me."

"No, no," says Sanchez. "It's, uh."

"Tramadol," says Petit, in Tim's ear. "Vitalis is tramadol in South America, you know? Héctor, _cómo lo conseguiste_?"

"It's in a Tylenol bottle." Sanchez shakes it. "No problems with security."

"Hunter," says Pagan, louder, "move your fucking chair."

"Sure thing," says Hunter, and doesn't move his chair at all. He just turns sideways and avoids Pagan's half-aimed slap at his head.

"Okay, I definitely don't need the hard drugs," says Tim. "Just gimme an ibuprofen."

He dry-swallows it, and the headache is already easing. Placebo effect, really.

"Is this a magic thing?" asks Sanchez.

"I don't know," says Tim. The grating of the equipment starts to recede as he's distracted, but the anxiety's still there. "Not really."

"Don't be nervous about pitching," says Sanchez. "You're a great pitcher."

Tim laughs.

"Aw, please don't," whines Hunter. "That sounds awful."

"You're awake now, aren't you?" snaps Pagan. "Sit your chair up, my legs are falling asleep."

"Hey, I have a good idea," says Hunter. "Why don't you just switch seats with someone?"

"I would if I could _move_ ," says Pagan. Petit is laughing at them, hand over his face.

"Hey," Sanchez holds out his hand for a fist-bump. Tim looks at it long enough that he can finally decipher the ink calligraphy across his knuckles. 'Hope.' Huh.

"Come on," says Sanchez. "It's gonna be a good start. I can feel it."

Tim knocks knuckles just to humor him, and feels warmth spread through him. It's gonna be a good start. Shit, his headache is _gone_.

"Aww," says Petit.

"If you don't sit your chair up," says Pagan, "I'm gonna do it for you."

Hunter snores.

"You're catching tomorrow, right?" asks Tim.

"Yeah." Sanchez beams. "I'm making the magic battery happen. Bochy says I probably can do most of your starts, if everything works out. If you're okay with it."

"As long as you keep me in pain-killers." Tim's hand still feels warm. "Yeah. I mean, yeah. Whatever works best."

Sanchez looks at him, smile slowly melting into uncertainty. "Tim. Tim. Can I give you hug?"

Tim has no idea what to say to that, so it's probably good that Pagan picks that moment to surge out of his chair and dive for Hunter's recline button.

"Shit!" Hunter yelps, like he'd actually managed to fall asleep. "What the fuck!" 

"You were squashing me!" shouts Pagan.

"If you can get up, just go sit somewhere else!"

"Fight," says Petit, quietly. "Fight, fight, fight, fight—"

"Can I come sit with you?" Tim asks Sanchez. "These guys are keeping me awake."

"Yeah, come on," says Sanchez. "We'll make Jean move."

It's weird, being in the middle of the plane, since Tim graduated to the back maybe two years ago. The flight feels different up here, more stable.

Maybe that's because Tim's left all the drama in the back, to be fair.

Tim falls asleep ten minutes after moving, and only wakes up for a minute when Bochy starts yelling at Hunter and Pagan for fighting.

"Should yell at Petit for encouraging them," Tim mutters to Hector.

"Well," says Hector, "I think the whole thing is your fault."

"Whatever," says Tim, and falls asleep again.

\---

Tim wins in Atlanta, loses in Pittsburgh, and feels _good_ the whole time. Warm and loose. It's weird as hell.

"It's not like I'm pitching that great," Tim tries to explain to Buster, on the plane from Pittsburgh to LA.

"I thought you looked fine out there," says Buster. His face is tucked under his cap, blocking out the sun from the window.

"I don't know, I don't think—"

"You're pitching fine," says Buster again.

And it is, it's fine, it's whatever. It's messy baseball, walks and fly balls and groundouts. Tim misses striking out every batter in an inning, how that felt. Isn't it wrong to feel good when you've got a, what, a 5.55 ERA?

"When you look at stats it fucks you up," says Buster, under his hat. "I'd like to recommend not doing that."

"Yeah?" Tim raises his eyebrows. "You spent an hour trying to explain WAR to me last week."

"It's fine when I look at stats, but it's bad news when you do it. It makes you antsy."

"That's the problem," says Tim. "I feel good."

"Oh my god," mutters Buster, and feigns sleep when Tim tries to keep talking. Tim sighs and reluctantly settles down before someone goes running for 'his catcher' again.

He's not even pitching against the Dodgers. Plenty of time to think about things before he has to put them into action.

Kershaw gives Tim a lot of mean looks while they're in town, especially when the Giants win a close game in extra innings at the end of the series. But the only thing he actually does is corner Hector after the game and ask him a bunch of nitpicky magic questions, then yell at Tim for not training his apprentice right.

"He wanted to know what the counter-spell for a rain delay is," says Hector, at the bar afterward. "I dunno. 'What? How can you not know?'"

Tim sips his beer and ignores the buzzing of his phone.

 **Kershaw:** he doesnt even know what a rhomberg turn is!!!!!  
**Kershaw:** youre betraying the mystic arts linseecum

"Are you gonna show me how to do this stuff or what?" asks Hector. "I don't wanna say 'I dunno' to a Dodger ever again."

"I'm trying to concentrate on my pitching," says Tim. "I don't have a lot of extra time for apprenticing."

"I'll drop the Harry Potter stuff," says Hector. "Okay? No more making fun."

 **Kershaw:** linsekem  
**Kershaw:** lincequam  
**Kershaw:** shit

"Oh, you were making fun of me?" Tim raises his eyebrows. "I never would have guessed."

Hector scowls at him. "Fine. I'll live with my ignorance."

 **Kershaw:** Lincecum  
**Kershaw:** This is Zack. Clay can't spell for shit.  
**Kershaw:** NOT TRUE!!!! black wizards hijakked my phone ignore them!!!!

"No, no," Tim waves a hand and drains the last of his beer, feeling magnanimous with victory. "Look, just ask next time you're wondering about something. I'm not gonna remember to put together lesson plans or anything, but I can answer questions."

"Okay," says Hector. "What's a Rhomberg turn?"

"Tomorrow," says Tim. "I'll answer questions tomorrow." Early flight back to San Francisco tomorrow, and Tim is never going to oversleep for one of those ever again—it's time to head out.

Tim steps out into the clear LA night and feels good. He decides to stop worrying about it.


	5. Game 48

[ ](http://www.9news.com/picture-gallery/sports/mlb/colorado-rockies/2014/05/22/rockies-giants-game-delayed-by-rain-and-tornado-warning/9454291/)

Tim looks out at the sodden Denver sky and is really glad he isn't pitching tonight. The tarp's on the field, but they spent a couple innings trying to play through the drizzle—the guys who were out there aren't soaked, but they're pretty damp.

Lightning flashes across the field, and the thunder cracks a couple seconds later.

"How many miles away is that?" asks Hudson.

"We're probably all gonna die," says Morse. "There's a tornado on the way."

"Okay," says Hector. "It's been an hour. Tim, you gotta fix this."

Tim is doing pull-ups on the edge of the dugout roof, because nobody's told him to stop and he's pitching tomorrow if they don't all die. "What do you want me to do?"

"Counter-spell for rain delay!" says Hector. "Like Kershaw said."

"Woah," says Hudson. "Woah. Hold on. We've been sitting in this rain for an hour and you could've just magicked it away?"

Tim drops off the roof.

"Listen," he says, but Hudson just waves for silence.

"All in favor of not getting murdered by a tornado?" he asks. Everyone raises their hands. Tim grimaces at Hector, because this is his fault.

Hector smiles back. "You said, if I want to learn about magic—"

"I'm an equipment guy," hisses Tim. "I don't do rain."

"Not even once?" asks Hector.

"Look, I shaved my moustache." Tim gestures at his clean-shaven face. "Isn't that enough for you? What more do you want from me?"

"You shaved it so you can grow it back better," says Hector. "Doesn't count. Also, won't work."

"Ti-im," says Hudson. "I'd really like to get back out there."

"Okay," says Tim. "Okay, uh. Pablo, do you still have Madison's cowboy boots?"

"No, he gave them back," says Bumgarner. "They're in my locker back in SF."

"No, I stole them again," says Sandoval. "They're _lucky_."

"Cool, go get them." Tim looks around while Sandoval makes a dash for it. "How many of you guys know the Rain Go Away song?"

\---

The cowboy boots were already about three sizes too big for Sandoval. Tim is swimming in them.

"Am I getting compensated for this?" asks Bumgarner.

"Shut up," says Hudson. "Okay, one, two, three—"

Tim jumps through puddles in Bumgarner's giant cowboy boots while the team sings a children's song. It's actually more like a chant—the song only has a couple notes to it in the first place, and Romo is so overpoweringly off-key that Tim can't hear anyone else.

Every time he jumps into another puddle Bumgarner winces. Tim tries to keep a properly stoic, mystical expression. He's pretty sure he's not succeeding.

There's a particularly big puddle right at the front of the dugout, and when Tim hits it the water cascades up around him, catching the light like crystal in the air. Also a bit splashes Bochy, who looks like he's just about done with this.

"Timmy," he starts. "I know we all like to have a good time out here, but—"

"I don't," says Buster, who'd missed the initial vote and had completely refused to sing. "Can we just—"

"Those boots were expensive!" calls Bumgarner.

"Look!" says Hector.

The clouds are parting. The rain has stopped. The grounds crew walks out to pull the tarp up, and Tim takes a bow to raucous applause.

"That was great," says Hector. "That's a counter-spell?"

"Uh." Tim pulls Hector off to the side while the starting players warm up again. "No. I really don't do rain."

"But the rain went away, so—"

Tim pulls up the radar on his phone. "I'm pretty sure it's coming back in a couple hours. On the other hand, that was super fun." He eases out of Bumgarner's sodden boots and regards his feet. "Do you have a clean pair of socks?"

"You're going to show me some real magic," Hector tells him. "This doesn't count."

"You got it." Tim looks around. "Can you carry me to the locker room? I have socks down there."


	6. Game 58

[ ](http://www.bayareasportsguy.com/the-giants-are-literally-winning-two-out-of-every-three-games/)

"What's the deal with the Cardinals?" asks Hector. It's the bottom of the third after the Giants got four runs in the first and two more just now—Tim can't complain about being distracted from a tense game, although there is something achingly pure about watching Hudson destroy a team. It helps that it's not raining.

"I don't know, they're the Cardinals," says Tim. "What do you mean, deal?"

"You know, deal," says Hector. "Giants, we've got the magic bats. Dodgers, they've got whatever Kershaw and Greinke do—"

"That's all spellwork," says Tim. "Kershaw's good at pushing the odds his way."

Hector nods. "Twins, they've got their mascot racing rituals—"

"Lots of teams do mascot races," says Tim.

"That one felt weird," says Hector. "I didn't like the way that fish looked at me."

"Wait until we're in DC," says Tim. "The President race is fucking creepy."

Hudson actually whacks the Cardinals batter in the ear with a pitch, and Tim covers his mouth as Craig shuffles around, trying to shake it off, trainer running to the field to check for concussion. Hudson looks like he wants to strangle himself for hitting a guy on accident and also for loading the bases.

Future Hall of Famers struggle too.

The crowd is booing, and it takes Hector a couple minutes to catch Tim's attention again. Tim wishes he wouldn't do it by snapping his fingers in Tim's face.

"What?"

"Their magic secret," says Hector, patiently. "I want to know what it is."

"Best fans in baseball," says Tim.

Hector gives Tim a look. "Thanks, Dumbledore."

"Okay, not seriously," says Tim. "I don't think they have a magic player, but they've got somebody who does their graphics whose got a pretty light touch."

"Magic graphics." Hector looks skeptical. "This is your fake rain magic again."

"Remember Rally Squirrel?" asks Tim. "That was great, I loved that. You could just feel the energy radiating off it, infusing the fans, reflecting down on the players."

Hudson gets a groundout and ends the inning, though he still looks freaked out by that wild pitch earlier. Tim's pretty sure he'll calm down with no problems—Buster's talking to Hudson as he shucks his catcher's gear, gets ready to bat.

"Magic's everywhere, huh?" Hector leans back. His eyes are following Craig to first base.

Craig's moving well, not dazed or anything, but hits to the head are tricky. Tim figures just about everyone on the field is a little worried about him.

"Can magic fix something like that?" Hectors nods at Craig.

"Maybe if you knew how," says Tim. "I can only charm the helmet, not the head."

"And the Cards just have fancy pictures," says Hector. 

The jumbotron flashes white as Hicks strikes out, doing everything it can.

\--- 

Tim plays 'where's the magic' with Hector in Cincinnati the next day, after he lets the Reds destroy him. Four runs in the first inning, four runs in the fifth, and then Bochy pulled him before Tim could do any more damage.

"Everything okay?" asks Hector.

"Yeah," says Tim. "I'm good."

Hector looks at him weird for a second, then shakes his head. "Come on, you were gonna show me the old stadium."

"I can't show you the old stadium, it's gone," says Tim. They're standing just outside the Great American Ball Park, out where the center of Cinergy Field used to be. "I'm showing you what's left of Borbón's curse."

He takes another step forward, into the very center. He takes Hector's hand at the same time, awkward and trying not to rasp him with his calluses.

"Feel it?" he asks.

"I don't—" says Hector, and then it visibly hits him. "Shit."

Burning, yearning, ice and rage. The ten best years of your life for a team, and then they just trade you away in the middle of a season, for a player who'll retire after just one more season. You have friends here, a life. You don't want to build one again.

Borbón played a decade for the Reds, pitched in three World Series for them, and they traded him in the middle of the season. God, he must have been mad.

Tim's never played for a team except the Giants. He doesn't like being out here in Cinergy Field, but it's history and a warning all wrapped together.

"He snuck out in the middle of the night," says Hector, eyes wide. "He set the curse, he wanted to fuck them over before he left—Tim, this _hurts_."

"I don't think it likes you," says Tim. "Borbón was traded for a Hector." He lets go of Hector's hand and the residual curse fades away.

Hector sucks in a shuddering breath. Tim wonders if that's enough magic for him.

"That's all that's left," says Tim. "Just the feeling. Most of it broke when the front office changed, and then they brought Alex Trevino in to clean up the rest. Played just seven games, spent all the rest of his time tidying toxic magic. I guess it worked, they won the World Series that year." 

"Could you do something like this?" Hector's waving a hand through the air, like he can feel the curse.

"Nah," said Tim. "Yamid, the guy who taught me, he showed me some stuff about how to fix a problem like this. He wouldn't show me how to start one, though."

"Good," says Hector. "You're already mad enough about today, I don't wanna deal with curses too."

"I'm not _mad_ ," says Tim, tossing an elbow at Hector's side. Hector catches it, hand warm against Tim, and abruptly Tim isn't lying anymore. He isn't mad. He's fine.

Pretty good, actually.

"Ohio's okay," says Hector. "But I like California better. I can't believe this guy threw a curse just because he got traded to us."

"The eighties weren't a fun time to be a Giant," says Tim. "I don't blame him. It was only a couple years before the Crazy Crab."

They share a moment of gratitude that they've never experienced a Giants team so bad that it had to turn to the Crazy Crab. Or, at least, Tim is grateful. Hector's just quiet, looking out at the grass where a stadium used to be.

"Can you curse a person?" Hector asks.

"Some people can." Tim shrugs. " _I_ can't. I just do gear."

"Good," says Hector, again. "Let's never come out here again."


	7. Game 65

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/6/9/5794278/giants-draft-tyler-beede-prospects)

Tim isn't very happy with his win against the Mets.

The day after a start, Tim does stairs in the stadium and tries not to think about yesterday. The day after a start at home, Tim brings his dog to help.

Cy barks at his heels as Tim pushes himself to go faster, almost losing Cy when they're going up and almost getting trampled when they're going down. It's a pretty good distraction.

That was messy, though. Homerun in the first inning, come on.

Tim's watch beeps and he stops for a minute to breathe. Better to win a messy game than lose one, sure. It's not really making his ERA go down, though. It's not really making him feel any better.

Tim's watch beeps, and he starts down the stairs again. Cy yelps like this is the last thing on earth he could have expected.

Keep moving, keep going. Tim catches sight of Hector stretching on the field and waves. Hector waves back.

There's a couple people wandering onto the field now too, doing their warm-up for the game. Tim pretty sure they're Nats, both because they don't look super familiar and also because of the familiar draining feeling of LaRoche's anti-magic that follows that entire team around.

You know what, Tim will take a messy win against the Mets over playing any games against the Nats. Vogelsong can have this one all to himself.

Cy whines, and Tim realizes he's stopped running. He adds a minute back to the countdown and starts moving again, ignoring the weird sucking feeling as he gets closer to the field.

It gets worse during the game, to the point that he wonders if Hector still has that tramadol on him. Just watching the Nats play makes his skin crawl, and being in the dugout is giving him a headache.

LaRoche puts a tag on Hunter, and Tim flinches when his glove makes contact with Hunter's batting helmet. That one actually stung.

"What's up with you?" asks Hector, out of the side of his mouth.

"Nationals magic doesn't mesh with my magic," says Tim. "Every time one of their players gets close to my gear it sort of—I don't know. Like the opposite of an electric shock."

"Oh," says Hector. "It's the Horcrux."

Tim looks at Hector, but Hector doesn't seem inclined to elaborate. He just leans over and yells at Crawford: "Tim says it's a Horcrux, pay up."

"What, seriously?" Crawford hustles over, nearly stepping on Hicks and then dragging him over too. "That glove's really a Horcrux?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," says Tim.

"It's, uh, like a repository for a piece of your soul," says Hicks. "Have you read Harry Potter?"

"Yeah, I'm not completely ignorant," says Tim. "But—"

"Look, it's pretty clear that Tim didn't say anything about a Horcrux," says Crawford. "No deal, Sanchez."

"He say the Nationals are sucking the life out him," says Hector. "That's basically a Horcrux." 

"That's not exactly what I said," says Tim, and then realizes that he should probably be backing Hector up. "I guess I sort of said the first part."

"The bet was about the glove, not the Nats," says Crawford. "Also, that sounds like a Dementor, not a Horcrux."

"What bet?" asks Tim, and the inning ends so Crawford and Hicks have to go play. Which leaves Hector to try and explain it.

"Okay, Jayson Werth." Hector nods to where Werth is trying his level best to get a hit off Vogelsong. "He has this glove, right? For ten whole years. Loves it, names it, wrecks it, has to replace it. All normal so far. But then he has it cast in bronze."

"That's a little weird," says Tim, who has done a lot of weird shit with his money. Bronzed baseball gloves are pretty low on that scale.

"The Brandons, they read this article and say 'hey, apprentice witch, what's up with this?' and I say 'yeah, that's, you know, that's a Horcrux.' And then they bet me twenty dollars I'm wrong."

Tim doesn't feel like he's got a better grip on this situation. "I thought you were dropping the Harry Potter stuff."

"Around you," says Hector, "sure. But the Brandons don't know any better." Hector leans in, like he's confiding a secret. "Pretty sure they think Hogwarts is real."

Tim stares out at the field. Hicks and Crawford don't look that gullible. Well, maybe Crawford. Unless they're all in on it together, and Tim is being the gullible one by believing that they believe in Hogwarts?

Tim's head already hurt, and it's getting worse.

"We were just sitting together at dinner." Hector's lost his joking tone, and his eyes look concerned. "They'd probably have asked you if you were close, it's not like—"

"I don't mind that they asked you." Tim rubs at the bridge of his nose as Werth grounds out. " How am I supposed to tell if it's a Horcrux if he doesn't use that glove anymore?"

Hector's eyes clear and he's smiling again. "I figure you can tell if someone missing a piece of their soul. Come on, man. For twenty bucks."

"Do I get a percentage?" asks Tim. Hector doesn't dignify that with an answer.

Tim sighs, closes his eyes tightly, feels the world shift. Opens them. 

He doesn't do this that often, anymore. Tim doesn't know why. Probably just the novelty wearing off.

The field is bright and a little glassy, a little unreal. There's a haze around each Giants player, the familiar rust orange tones of Tim's charms. After an entire career with the Giants his magic would probably still bleed orange even if they traded him to the Dodgers. The ball in Vogelsong's hand is a bright point of white, infused with the natural background magic of pitching.

It's beautiful, though it's bright enough to make Tim's eyes sting. And then LaRoche steps up to the plate and ruins it.

LaRoche is a black hole, sucking in magic and not letting it escape. Tim feels his charms flicker and fight, but they weaken in direct relation to how close LaRoche is. The outfielders are fine, charms for capturing and keeping the ball still going strong. Buster's catcher's gear is pretty much dead, which is obvious as soon as Vogelsong tosses a pitch. Buster tries to frame it like normal, but 'normal' has that extra charmed cushion and now that's gone the ump is calling tight. Vogelsong keeps throwing balls and getting more and more frustrated. He figures it out eventually, manages two strikes, the ball dimming visibly as it passes by LaRoche. And then LaRoche gets a hit.

Tim grinds his teeth, watching LaRoche sprint to second base and pull the magic off Hicks as soon as he gets there.

"Well?" says Hector.

"I want to ban LaRoche from baseball," says Tim.

"Okay," says Hector. "But what about Werth?"

Tim turns his attention to the other dugout, but there's really nothing there. "I don't know," he says. "Guess I'll have to wait until he's on the field.

The inning drags agonizingly as Vogelsong loads the bases and then gives up two runs. Finally it's over and the Nats take the field.

Each of the Nats is wearing some kind of talisman around their neck, a little piece of black hole radiating off them. It turns them washed out and grey, like ghosts. Tim wishes he knew who taught LaRoche how to replicate himself. The talismans aren't as strong as LaRoche in person, but it cuts the Giants' edge, and Tim likes being at the top of the division. He doesn't want to lose because of the magic arms race.

Werth takes up position in the right field, and Tim squints. There's something different about him.

"Hand me that empty Gatorade," says Tim. He keeps his eyes trained on Werth, raises the bottle when Hector passes it to him. He presses his hand to the base and it turns clear, magnifies until he could be standing right in front of Werth.

Werth's not wearing a talisman. The grass around him is dully orange just like the rest of the stadium, tinged by decades of Giants magic, and Werth isn't messing any of it up.

"How many pieces are left of his soul?" asks Hector.

"Hold on," says Tim. "Why is he—Oh. There it is."

Buster hits a fly ball to right field, and Werth blazes into light. His beard is sparkling, his eyes are glittering, and his glove is sending a homing beacon so strong that the ball practically floats down to it.

"Okay," says Tim. "I think you might have won your bet." A player-glove link that strong has to be shared essence or _something_. He swings the bottle to see if this is anything to do with LaRoche and catches LaRoche staring right at their dugout. "Shit."

LaRoche points at Tim, scowling, and mimes cutting his throat. Tim drops the bottle like it's on fire, and LaRoche comfortingly gets a lot further away. For now. Shit!

"What's wrong?" Hector leans into Tim, trying to see. "Is Werth actually Voldemort?"

"I'm pretty sure LaRoche is going to murder me," says Tim. "You keep getting me in trouble with other teams."

"I am only a lowly apprentice," says Hector. "Also, you were in trouble with the Dodgers before I did anything."

"So I'm on my own, is what you're saying." Tim turns to look at Hector's no-doubt shit-eating grin and then catches his breath as he looks properly at Hector for the first time in years.

Hector radiates. Warm, bright orange, spilling off of him and onto anything he touches. It fades quickly on the wood of the bench, but when Tim reaches out to touch him the light clings tightly to his fingertips, warming him to the bone. "Holy shit."

"What?"

"You're magic," says Tim. "Seriously magic."

"Of course," says Hector, but he sounds surprised and a little gleeful. "Wait, how?"

"I don't know yet," says Tim. "But you're coming with me when LaRoche tries to beat me up."

"Are you going to teach me a dueling spell?" asks Hector, only half-joking.

"If I knew any," says Tim. "Maybe I can use you as a human shield."

\---

LaRoche tries to corner Tim after the game, which is hard given the media presence, the crowds of fans, and the fact that there's purposefully no easy way to get from one locker room to another. Tim cheerfully takes advantage of it, doing his level best to avoid even LaRoche's gaze across a room. He's pretty sure LaRoche can't throw anti-magic curses, but he doesn't want to find out.

Finally LaRoche sends a ballboy with a note.

_You and me!!!! Name a place!!_

Tim seriously considers giving the ballboy a fake address, sending LaRoche on a wild goose chase through SF. It's the start of a three-game series, though, which gives LaRoche way too much time to figure it out.

"Why couldn't you have been curious two days from now?" he asks Hector.

"You had a headache," hisses Hector. "I just wanted to distract you."

Tim borrows a pen from a kid who wants an autograph and scribbles an address on the back of LaRoche's note. "Here," he tells the ballboy. "Thanks."

The ballboy hangs around for a second, like she's expecting something else.

"I think you're supposed to tip," says Hector.

"For delivering death threats?" asks Tim, but he fishes a dollar out of his pocket. "There you go, scram."

"Timmy!" Bochy emerges from the crowd. "You look a little, uh." Bochy gestures at his own face, frowning. "Everything okay?" 

"Great," says Tim. He should probably let Bochy know what's going on in case he goes missing tonight, but there's too many reporters still hanging around. "Just being a team player. With, uh, LaRoche."

Bochy nods and taps his nose, looking at Hector. "Sanchy, you being a team player too?"

"Yeah," says Hector. "Sure?"

"He's working on it," says Tim. "I think he has a lot of potential."

"Glad to hear it," says Bochy. "Glad to hear it. Let's talk about that later, okay? I'm sure it's going great, just keep me in the loop." He moves on.

"I'm always a team player," says Hector, to his back.

\---

Tim had hoped that meeting at Sushirrito would keep LaRoche from making a scene. Like—it's a small place, not super busy at this time of day. The judgment of the food service workers would mollify LaRoche. Or he would be shocked into silence by a burrito made of sushi.

"Yeah, yeah, they're cool." LaRoche's mouth is full and he's not mollified at all. "That doesn't get rid of the fact that you were fucking stealing signs!"

"I was not!" snaps Tim. God, this is a thousand times worse than being at the game. LaRoche is oozing negative power, and it feels like he's suffocating Tim with a wool blanket. 

LaRoche swallows. "This is a violation of the Wendell Treaty."

"Oh, it is not," says Tim. "Have you even read the Treaty? There's no explicit rule about stealing signs, and—"

"So you admit it!" shouts LaRoche.

"Keep it down," says Hector. "You're gonna get us kicked out."

LaRoche glances at the sushi people, who are clearly starting to wonder what the hell is going on. Then he stares at Hector. "Why are you even here?"

"He's part of my coven," says Tim. "He's learning."

"Yeah?" LaRoche looks Hector up and down. "Gonna teach him how to juice bats too?"

"Fuck off," says Tim, and LaRoche reaches out like he's gonna strangle him. Hector knocks Laroche's hand back down to the table.

"Go _away_ ," says LaRoche, pushing thoughtlessly with that blanket, like he expects to shove a 230-pound man as easily as he smothers all of Tim's magic. Hector's sneakers squeak against the floor, but he doesn't really go anywhere. Then his face goes red and he pushes back.

Tim only catches the edge of it, and he still takes a step back. LaRoche almost knocks over a chair. 

For a second Hector looks shocked at himself, but he hides it pretty quickly. "We weren't stealing signs."

"Okay, shit." LaRoche catches his balance. "What _were_ you doing?"

Hector shrugs. "I just wanted a better look at Werth's Horcrux."

"What?"

"His glove," says Tim. "That's some cool shit right there."

"Oh!" LaRoche beams, and the black hole disappears entirely. Apparently he can switch it on and off. "Isn't it sweet?"

"Did he make it?" asks Tim.

"Nah, it's some buddy of his at Rawlings," says LaRoche. "They kind of, uh, imbue it, you'd probably understand it better than I do, but—" He draws himself up short. "You really weren't stealing signs?"

"No," says Hector.

"You won by seven runs, of course not," says Tim.

"Okay, cool," says LaRoche, and proceeds to talk shop for about an hour. It's actually kind of nice, when his magic lets Tim breathe.

It doesn't get too late before LaRoche and Hector remember they have to play tomorrow, and anyway Tim's getting worried that his clever disguise is wearing thin. Glasses always worked for Clark Kent, but sometimes Tim wonders if they just make him stand out more. Anyway, they head out before the sushi people notice anything's up. LaRoche goes for his hotel, and Tim and Hector go for Hector's car.

"What's the Wendell Treaty?" asks Hector, once they get halfway up the parking garage.

"Magic used to be dealt with by the teams individually," says Tim. "And if someone went too far, they'd get beaned. But Wendell was always going too far, _and_ he had a forcefield. It just got out of control. So the Player's Union got together, came up with a treaty for magic players to abide by. Sign stealing isn't on the treaty, I just want to make that clear. Most of the little stuff people get mad about isn't."

Hector turns his car on and pulls out into the steep and awful traffic. He drives in silence for a little bit, and Tim leans back in his seat and lets Hector go wherever he wants to go. 

"So," says Hector, eventually. "I'm in the coven for real this time? Not just 'look Héctor, here's some magic' but also 'look Héctor, here's how to do it'?"

"Yeah," says Tim. "If you can handle LaRoche, you deserve it. Listen, do you actually know where I live?"


	8. Game 74

  
[-](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/6/13/5809360/giants-rockies-recap)   
[-](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/6/14/5810792/giants-rockies-recap-22-jump-street-sequels)   
[\- ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/6/15/5813072/giants-rockies-recap-burnt-ash-taste)  


Tim wants to do this right, so he calls Yamid.

"I don't know, man, give him something easy to do. Shit, what are you doing? Stop!" Yamid keeps swearing at someone in-between talking to Tim—Tim doesn't know what he's up to nowadays, but it's not baseball and it sounds pretty frustrating. " _Pendejo_. Okay, yeah. Uh. What are we talking about?"

"What do I do with Hector?" asks Tim.

"What do you ever do with a baby _brujo_?" asks Yamid. "Just, yeah, do something easy with him, see how he tries to work it. It's all instinct."

"It didn't feel like instinct when it was you and me," says Tim. "Like, it was pretty hard—"

"I didn't say easy, I said instinct." Yamid breaks to shout at someone again. Tim rolls a ball around his kitchen table while he waits. "You remember," says Yamid, at last, "you remember when I was first trying to teach you, right? All the little spells that didn't work."

"Yeah," says Tim. "I couldn't get it at all."

"Because I was trying to make you do what I do, what my teacher did. And then I just gave up on directing you, and bam! Magic everywhere." Yamid laughs. "And I thought 'okay, equipment, that's what Tim's good for.' You try something with your Hector, give him a problem and see what his solution is. Then you can go from there."

"Sounds good," says Tim. "Thanks, Yamid."

"Yeah, yeah." The background noise softens, like Yamid's stepped inside. "Everything else okay with the team? I miss it, you know?"

"Everything's good," says Tim. "I'm kind of—" he cuts himself off. "I'm good too. It's an even year and we've been leading since, like, April. It's, yeah, it's good." He sounds like an idiot, but whatever, Yamid's definitely heard him sound worse.

"Great," says Yamid, wistful tones turning a little sharp, like he can tell what Tim isn't saying. "Okay, love to hear from you but I gotta go, let me know how your _brujo_ turns out, bye."

"Bye," says Tim, right before Yamid hangs up.

Time to find Hector a problem to solve.

\---

They don't have to wait too long. Tim's sitting on his own on the flight from Chicago to Phoenix when Romo sits down next to him.

"Listen," says Romo. "I'm pretty sure I'm cursed."

Tim takes out one of his headphones, looks at him.

"Cursed with _good looks_ ," says Romo and the rest is inaudible because Tim puts his headphones back in and turns the music way up.

Romo waves his hands, mouthing something and making faces. "I don't want your dad jokes," says Tim. Romo looks wounded and gets up. Tim spends about thirty seconds wondering if he's hurt Romo's feelings and should chase after him when Romo returns with Hector, pushes Hector into the empty seat in the row behind Tim, next to Petit. Petit watches all of this with the excited anticipation of a man who wants to start another plane fight.

Tim takes out his headphones.

"I'm serious," says Romo. "Héctor, tell him I'm serious."

"He's serious," says Hector.

"And I'm sorry about the dumb joke."

"He's not sorry," says Hector.

"Okay, I'm not sorry," says Romo. "I look hot. But I'm also cursed."

"With what?" asks Tim, dismally aware that he's setting himself up for another shitty joke.

Romo looks like it physically hurts him to refrain. "I don't know, man, two blown saves in a row? Two really badly blown saves against the Rockies? Something's screwed up."

Tim does Romo the courtesy of not automatically assuming he's wrong, but come on. If every player having a shitty day was cursed, there would have to be about a million witches. "Anything specific that might have triggered the curse?"

"Well," Romo hesitates.

"It was the radio lady, yes?" says Petit.

"No," says Romo, quickly. "Well. Yeah. Okay, yeah, probably."

Tim just waits.

"One of the Spanish-language sports radio people," says Romo. "I gave her a kind of shitty interview."

"It was her first interview ever." Petit leans forward, wedging between Tim and Romo's seats. "And Sergio made it a big joke."

"I was trying to be charming," says Romo.

Tim rolls his eyes and catches Hector doing the same thing.

"That's what I do!" Romo makes a helpless gesture. "How did I know she wanted to be serious?"

"She said 'please, be serious,'" says Petit. "You didn't listen."

"Look," says Romo, and then kind of trails off.

"I gave her a serious interview," says Petit, smugly. " _I_ pitched fine."

"Yusmeiro, I swear to god—"

"Did she say anything that sounded like a curse?" asks Tim.

"Most of what she said shouldn't be repeated in polite company," says Romo.

Tim looks at Hector. Hector looks back expectantly.

"All right," says Tim. "We'll take a look at it when we get to the hotel."

\---

"Okay, give it your best shot," Yamid points at his leg. Tim stares at it. He's 22 and only three days into the A- season, and he's uncomfortably in awe of and scornful of Yamid, unable to decide if his nine years in the minor leagues and eighteen games in the majors is an accomplishment or an embarrassment.

On the other hand, he's watched Yamid levitate a baseball across the field and lightly bean a left-fielder in the back of the head. That was unambiguously impressive.

He still has no idea what to do to Yamid's leg.

"Come on, man, it hurts." Yamid pokes Tim in the forehead. "I don't like to squat when my shins hurt."

Tim tentatively lays hands on Yamid's leg and waits for power to surge through him or a magic spell to pop into his mind. Nothing happens. "What should I do?"

"You tell me," says Yamid. "Whatever feels natural."

"Uh." Tim closes his eyes, hoping something will occur to him. They freeze like that, Yamid breathing lightly in and out, Tim's palms beginning to sweat. He snatches them away before he can leave any stains on Yamid's pants.

It feels weird, trying to fix a half-dressed catcher. Maybe that's step one.

"Can you put your gear on?" asks Tim. Yamid shrugs and turns to the pile of gear in his locker, starting with the shin guards. Tim stops him before he picks up the chest plate.

"Okay, uh. I think that's enough? Sit back down."

Yamid raises his eyebrows and sits down. Tim tries the laying on hands thing again, and this time he feels a tingle.

"Hey," he whispers to the guards. "You're not doing your job very well." Yamid chuckles, and Tim can feel himself flush. "You're supposed to protect the catcher, right? Support the crouch. Shin splits are definitely not okay." Warmth is spreading out from his hands now, and the guards creak. Yamid's stopped laughing.

"You can do better," mumbles Tim, and lets go.

Yamid stands up experimentally, takes a few steps. He smiles.

"Okay?" asks Tim.

"You're an equipment guy," says Yamid. "I didn't expect that."

"Is that good?" asks Tim. He realizes that he's still crouching on the floor and scrambles up.

"Teams always need equipment guys," says Yamid. "Solid magic. Pitcher magic is usually—" Yamid waves a hand, "—weird. Self-involved, maybe. This is some real team-player shit, here."

"I try," says Tim, not sure how to take any of that.

Yamid does a little spin. "They feel lighter, too. You know, I was expecting more traditional magic. Salt in the shoes, maybe, I've seen that one before. You got any superstitions? Not baseball superstitions, family superstitions."

"Not really," says Tim. "Dad doesn't talk about that stuff, and I'm not—My mom and I don't talk about anything."

"Sorry," says Yamid. "When'd you first throw a ball?"

"I think I was three," says Tim. "I don't really remember. My dad taught me to pitch when I was six."

"There we go," says Yamid. "Early affinity for baseball stuff."

"Couldn't you say that about any player?" asks Tim. "Why can you float baseballs around?"

"When I was six I was watching Star Wars," says Yamid. "Hey, do my mask next."

Tim spends the next five hours working on Yamid's equipment. Somewhere in there he decides neither awe or scorn is really adequate to deal with him.

\---

"Okay," says Tim, sitting on Romo's bed. "Give it your best shot."

Hector stares at Tim, stares at Romo, stares at Tim again. "What?"

"Why aren't you doing this?" says Romo. "Where's your magic hat? Am I not important enough for the head witch?"

"It's a training exercise," says Tim.

"I don't want to be a training exercise," says Romo.

"Then you shouldn't have gotten cursed," says Tim.

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing?" asks Hector.

"Just do whatever feels natural," says Tim.

"Except," says Romo, "except, let me set some ground rules. Number one, this is really important, no sex magic. I asked my wife about it and she said no."

"I'm not doing _that_." Hector looks like he's going to spontaneously combust—Tim hopes his magic doesn't run to that, because he hasn't turned off the smoke alarm in here. "Tim, that's not a kind of magic, right?"

"Number two!" Romo jabs a finger at Hector. "No shrimp, I'm allergic to shrimp."

"I don't have any shrimp." Hector shoots Tim a worried look, somewhere between 'is Romo going off the deep end' and 'should I have brought shrimp.'

"Ignore him," says Tim. "Just let the magic flow."

"But not in a sexy way," says Romo.

Hector looks more worried.

"Okay." Tim pulls his glasses out of his pocket. "Let's start with looking at the problem."

Tim breathes on the glasses to fog them, then draws eyes over the lenses with his finger. He settles them over Hector's nose and grins when the arms splay wide to accommodate Hector's face. "You'll figure out the trick pretty fast. Think of these like training wheels."

Hector adjusts the glasses absently, staring at Romo. Tim can see it too, now that he's looking. There's a swirl of black knotted around Romo, curving across his arms, his throat. "She got you good," murmurs Hector.

"Oh, shit," says Romo. "I'm actually cursed? How do we get rid of it? Do I have to go on a quest? Do I have to find the radio lady and give her an exclusive interview? Because I kind of threw away her business card, and—"

"Shh," says Hector. He steps forward, puts his hands on Romo's shoulders, looking down at him. Tim watches as the darkness draws in and up, swirling around Romo's head.

"What do I do?" whispers Romo.

Hector looks at him, and his eyes are shining and blank behind Tim's glasses. "Shave your beard."

"What?" squawks Romo. "No!"

Tim starts laughing.

"Look, I just put the curse in your beard," says Hector. "Now you gotta get rid of it."

"You cursed my _beard_?" Romo knocks Hector's hands off his shoulders. "You're making it worse!"

"Better your beard than your arm," says Hector. "Your beard's gonna grow back, but your arm—"

"I'll go get you my shaving kit." Tim heads for the door.

"I love this beard," says Romo, mournfully. "It's my playoff beard."

"It's _June_ ," says Hector. "And you look like a goat."

To fix a curse, you have to sacrifice. If Tim was running this show, he'd find something that Romo really values, maybe something he likes to wear or an old piece of equipment, something that lives next to his skin. He'd call the curse into that, and then burn it. Outside, where it wouldn't set off the sprinklers.

But that's him, and this is all Hector. The beard sacrifice is pretty clever, though Tim doesn't think he personally could move a curse around a person like that.

Romo shaves his beard himself when Tim gets back. He looks lighter, younger with every stroke of the razor. When he's done, he looks in the mirror and smiles. "Okay. Yeah."

"Better?" asks Tim. The curse looks like it's gone, but you always think that until they pop up again.

"I feel great," says Romo, and hugs Hector around the middle. "Thanks, man."

Hector grins. "Hey, maybe we could do Tim next."

"Nope," says Tim, brightly. "Okay, good night, I have to start tomorrow and you guys are wearing me out—"

"Are you sure?" asks Romo, fingers twitching towards the razor. "The return of the moustache has been keeping me up at night. Why would you grow it so small?"

"Didn't you shave it the first time so it would come in fuller?" asks Hector. "Maybe second time's the charm, you know?"

Tim escapes.

Hector chases him down the hall, and Tim slows down enough to let him catch up once he's reasonably sure Hector isn't carrying the can of shaving cream.

"Do you need these back?" Hector waves Tim's glasses. 

"Not right away," says Tim. "Go ahead and use them if you want."

"You don't need them to see?"

"That's not really what they're for," says Tim. "I mean, they're pretty low prescription."

Hector holds the glasses up to his face, squinting through one eye. Tim has to steer him away from walking into a wall. "You're bright," says Hector, still squinting. "You know? 

"Oh yeah?" Tim glances down at himself, sees the normal rust orange of his magic. It used to be brighter, four or five years ago. As he's gotten older he feels like it's dulled, turned a little cold. 

"Like the sun." Hector lowers the glasses. They've walked past Hector's room, almost at Tim's now, but Hector doesn't seem to have noticed. "Do I pass the test?"

"It's not that kind of test," says Tim. "But sure, you did good. You're a people person."

"Oh, I like talking—" begins Hector.

"Not that kind of people person," says Tim. "You, uh, you can change people."

"You know just from that?" Hector gives Tim his teasing smile. "Maybe I'm a beard person."

"Not just from that." Tim's hand is on his room's doorknob. "Anyway. Think about it later, we're playing tomorrow."

"The magic battery." Hector glows with it, unironically, orange light flaring until Tim blinks hard and turns his sight off. "I'm ready. You?"

Tim holds up his hand, and Hector gives him a fistbump with the hand that says hope. Tim's hand tingles, and warmth spreads up his arm. "Yeah. Absolutely."

\---

Tim doesn't want to talk about his start, which is why he's been ignoring his dad's calls all day. But Romo makes two saves in Phoenix clean-shaven. Or at least mostly shaven—the beard is growing back fast. Tim feels a surge of pride with every out.

"He must look ten years younger," says Bochy, from his perch on the edge of the dugout. "Was this your great idea?"

"Hector's," says Tim. "You know, changing stuff up."

"He should stick with it," says Bochy.

"Yeah, Hector's really—"

"I mean, I don't say this about many men, but _damn_ ," says Bochy. "Sergio has great cheekbones."

"Oh," says Tim. "Uh, yeah."

"Anyway, seems like things are going pretty well." Bochy smiles to himself. "Keep up the good work." 

"Okay?" For a second Tim wonders if he should ask Bochy what kind of work that is. But then the last batter strikes out swinging, Romo crows in victory, and Tim doesn't really care anymore.


	9. Game 79

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/6/26/5846482/tim-lincecum-no-hitter-padres/in/5607675)

"You just recorded your second career no-hitter against the Padres," says Amy G. "What emotions can you share with us that are happening right now for you?"

"Uh," says Tim, and Powerade sheets over his head, immediately followed by the lid of the cooler bonking him in the head. He's done. Utterly and completely. He has no idea how he's feeling.

He's gonna kill Matt Cain. Right after he gets a new shirt.

The locker room echoes, everyone still out on the field. Tim changes and tries to figure his life out. He peels his wet socks off and sits down on the bench.

"I feel good," he says, but that's completely inadequate.

Look: here is a list of experiences.

The first inning, three up, three down, starting to feel like he's got this covered.

Every strike thudding into Hector's glove like it's magnetized, the electric feeling of pitching to someone who's magic.

Pitching to Yamid when he's twenty-two, the light tug of his pitches into the strike zone. It's different, but the same, and inseparable from the growing conviction that Tim's riding something tonight, that he's going somewhere.

Smiling after every out, after pitch that he throws just like Hector wants. Thump, thump, thump into the glove.

Running the basepaths in the third, in the seventh, feeling the wind blow the hair off the back of his neck and the way home plate feels under his feet.

Listening to Romo telling the new kid, Duvall, that he's lucky to be here, that this is fucking history. Listening to people try to shut Romo up because it's only the fifth, but shit, they know. Tim knows.

Hector sitting next to Tim on the bench, humoring Tim's desperate need to chatter. Hector's eyes, shining and sure and a little crazed with the game.

Seventh inning, eighth, ninth, the crowd so loud it feels like silence. Thump. Thump.

Thump.

Hector charges the mound, arms spread wide. For a second his magic flashes across Tim's vision, joyous and consuming, and then he snatches Tim up.

Tim is flying, weightless.

His cheeks hurt from grinning.

The team crowds around until Hector almost puts Tim down on top of Sandoval. And everyone is laughing and shouting and Tim could just close his eyes and melt away into this team, never worry about anything ever again.

Tim tries to piece it all together, make it understandable and whole. But, fuck, what is he gonna say? Hi, Amy, yeah, I'm having one of the worst seasons of my career and I just pitched one of the best games of my life. Yeah, Amy, I don't get it either. No, Amy, I don't know how I feel. I don't know if I should be happy.

He should put some shoes on. He should go back out on the field and do the rest of the interview.

His phone rings, and Tim hits the ignore button without looking to see who's called. He's got about five hundred text messages he doesn't want to read.

The locker room door opens, and Hector sticks his head in.

"I'm not, I can't." Tim runs his hands through his hair. "I'm not going back out there."

Hector pushes the door the rest of the way open and just stands there.

"I know I gotta," says Tim, "But—"

"Tim." Hector's arms are outstretched.

"We already did this," says Tim. He's not sure if his ribs can take it again.

"Tim," says Hector again, and literally picks him up off the bench, hauling him into the air and swinging him lightly. "Tim, Tim, Tim, Tim, oh my god."

"I know," says Tim.

"Cain's sorry," says Hector.

"I'm gonna curse his balls off," says Tim, muffled by Hector's sweaty shirt.

"You can't curse anyone." Hector finally lets Tim down.

"Don't tell Cain that." Tim feels the stretch in his cheeks and realizes he's grinning again. "I want him checking his dick for at least a week."

"Nasty," says Hector. "Hey, hey. How you feeling?"

"I'm so glad you caught that game," says Tim. "I'm just—I'm really glad."

Hector rests his hands on Tim's shoulders and smiles at whatever sees in Tim's face. "Come on," he says. "We got something for you."

He guides Tim out of the locker room, and all Tim feels is warmth.

"It better not be another bath," says Tim. "Because—"

The whole team is in the clubhouse, holding paper cups that reek of champagne. Hector hands Tim a goddamn gladiator helmet. Bochy gives a speech about how proud he is. Of Tim.

Well, hell. Tim's gonna enjoy this while it lasts.

"I feel great," he tells Hector.

"Good," says Hector, and dumps the dregs of his drink over Tim's helmet.

It's family day at the park, so the party winds down fast so two-thirds of the guys can head out to take pictures and play softball with their girlfriends or wives or kids. Hector's daughter is pretty adorable in a Giants-colored tutu. The younger guys would be happy to keep celebrating with Tim, but then his phone rings and he has to excuse himself.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey." Tim's dad blows out a shaky breath. "I can't believe you allowed that walk."

Tim laughs, still shocked even though he's known this guy his entire life.

"Seriously, though," says his dad. "I'm coming around on Sanchez. You two looked good out there."

"Sometimes it comes together," says Tim. "I just hope I can keep it that way."


	10. Game 104

  
[-](http://bleacherreport.com/articles/2127339-is-tim-lincecums-recent-hot-stretch-a-career-revival-or-mirage%22) [ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/7/26/5940391/hector-sanchez-andrew-susac-called-up)  


July is mostly great. Tim feels like he can have that, right? He loves about eighty percent of July. July is good pitching, and the Giants clinging to the lead, and a fourteen-inning game that Tim saves. Hector catches every pitch of that game, and Tim and Romo have to half-carry him from the bus to the hotel. Tim's pretty sure that Bumgarner or Hudson would do a better carrying job, but he's not giving up this honor to anybody.

But this is baseball, so the only part of July that really matters is this:

The ball rockets out of Tim's hand, the batter swings an instant too late, in the wrong place, and then there's a sick crack as the ball tips off the bat and slams into Hector's head.

That's it, Tim doesn't need a list to figure out how he feels about this one.

Tim fidgets on the mound while the trainer looks into Hector's eyes, trying to get him to focus. Finally they decide that he's okay to play, maybe, or at least to finish up the inning. That takes two more pitches, and Tim just has to breathe and let them go, watching the tape on Hector's fingers as he gives the signs and trying not to look at his face.

Hector's gone when the fourth inning rolls around, Buster catching. Tim takes a deep breath and tries to keep his head in the game. Tim allows three runs in the fifth inning and gets pulled.

They lose to the fucking Dodgers, 8-1. Hector's at the hospital and pretty much everyone else has left for home or the bar by the time Tim changes into street clothes.

He's got fifteen messages on his phone from Kershaw. Tim leaves them unread. He answers the third time it rings, though.

"Hi," says Greinke. "Clayton didn't do it."

"I know," says Tim. They might be Dodgers, but they're not quite nasty enough to throw curses on field.

"He says he knows," says Greinke, tinny as he turns away from the phone. "No, don't, shit—"

"Hi," says Kershaw, breathlessly. "I was nudging, you know, like I told you. I put it all on the batting, but it was just little stuff, right?"

"Puig hit two triples off me," says Tim.

"He was having a good night," says Kershaw. "Little nudges, I swear. And that foul tip—you know I don't hold a grudge, I wouldn't—"

"I know," says Tim again. He'd laugh at Kershaw's panic if he wasn't so miserable. And, you know, he understands. This is the kind of thing feuds are made of, coincidences at the wrong moment with the wrong team. Kershaw's probably worried that Tim's gonna curse his glove or his bat or his stadium.

Tim could do it. The more he thinks about it, the more he can see the trick of it. He'd just lay his hands on a wall and let his frustration seep into the walls, simmering and indestructible. You wouldn't be able to make a hit without your bat snapping in half.

It's not Kershaw's fault, or Greinke's. It's just baseball. And they're not playing at Dodgers Stadium until September anyway. Tim's not mad enough to curse AT&T.

"He flared up big when it happened," says Kershaw. "Like a beacon. You see that?"

"I wasn't looking," says Tim.

"I think he'll be fine," says Kershaw. "Gotta be, right? You're doing a good job with the training, he looked real confident right up until he got hit."

Tim hangs up, because that's about as much as he can take. He doesn't answer when it rings again.

He's sitting bare-footed in the empty locker room again. But there's no champagne in the clubhouse, and Hector's not coming to get him.

Tim puts his shoes on and goes home.

\---

The next morning, Tim does stairs at the field fifteen minutes longer than he should, until his brain stops whirring so hard and until Cy is sitting halfway up the stands, panting as Tim goes by. When Tim feels like his legs are going to collapse he does one more round and then forces himself to call Hector.

"Hi, Tim." Hector sounds wrong, dull and brittle. Tim's not sure if it's the concussion or if this is how Hector always sounds on the phone.

"Hey," says Tim. "How you feeling?"

"I haven't thrown up in, uh. A couple hours? It's a new record."

Tim listens to Hector talk, about how his daughter keeps bringing him stuffed animals and how his wife Elizabeth makes sure he has plenty of water and put a tarp over their nice bedroom carpet. About how the light is hurting Hector's eyes and he just lies in bed with the curtains drawn, feeling like a vampire.

"Like, is that real thing?" asks Hector. "If magic's real, what about vampires? Oh, shit, hold on."

Tim holds the phone away from his head while Hector throws up again.

"I did pretty good," says Hector, after a couple minutes, voice rough. "It's mostly in the bucket. Elizabeth's gonna be proud."

"Listen," says Tim. "I kinda called to apologize."

"Oh my god, let's not," says Hector.

"Bochy always says I'm rough on catchers, and—"

"It's not about you," says Hector.

"I know, I'm just trying to say..." Tim clutches out the phone, wishing he could see what Hector looks like. "I've been pitching to contact, and I bounced that ball off a bat into your head, and I'm sorry."

"You know I lead the league in getting hit in the head?" asks Hector. There's no humor in his voice, just frustration. "It's not about you."

"It was a shitty pitch," says Tim. "Or the equipment, I should have done something more to your mask—"

Hector groans. "What, you gonna give me a forcefield? Doesn't that break the magic treaty?"

In fact, that's one of the few things that the Wendell Treaty outright bans. "Maybe not a forcefield," says Tim.

"Come on. What could you have done?"

"I don't know." Tim feels his voice crack, and Cy whines. "I just want to help."

"It's over, it's happened," says Hector. "You wanna help, let me rest, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay," says Tim. "Feel better soon, and if you need anything—"

Hector's already hung up. 

Tim looks at his phone and thinks really hard about calling Hector back. He doesn't. He doesn't think he could listen to Hector's voicemail right now.

It's baseball. This is what's baseball's like. You feel like you're doing good, you're pulling everything back together, and then the bottom drops out from you.

Tim should know better than to think he can control when that happens and how bad it feels.

The Giants careen out of first place, accumulating losses while the Dodgers forge ahead. A six-game losing streak is only broken when Tim gives up five runs against the Pirates and they somehow manage to win anyway.

He doesn't like pitching to Susac. It doesn't feel the same. 

Tim shaves his moustache the night after the Pirates game, pouring magic into the razor to try and do—something. He doesn't know. The magic sluices off uselessly anyway, because he's never been able to cast on himself or anyone else. He snaps a picture and sends it to his dad. He almost sends it to Hector, but he saves it in drafts at the last second instead.


	11. Game 119

[ ](http://www.bayareasportsguy.com/tim-lincecum-gets-torched-giants-get-swept/)

"I mean, what's wrong with Susac?" asks Tim's dad. "He's not bad at pitch framing. That Sanchez guy—"

Tim has a completely unfair list of things he doesn't like about Susac's catching that pretty much boils down to 'not Hector.' "Can we not talk about this? I gotta go out for introductions in ten minutes."

"Okay, okay." Tim's dad sighs. "Be nice to Susac, okay? Throw him some good pitches."

"Hector's doing rehab starts in triple-A," says Tim. "He'll be back soon."

"You get too attached," says Tim's dad. At least he sounds fond instead of just annoyed. "Think about the game. Good luck!"

Tim gives up six runs to the Royals and gets yanked in the fourth inning. So much for that. Hopefully Gutierrez will do a better job. 

Tim's thinking about throwing his glove against the dugout wall when Buster pulls him to one side.

"I don't want to talk about my pitching," says Tim. He sets the glove down carefully and picks a ball up off the ground instead, loose from someone's pocket. 

"That's fine, neither do I." Buster hesitates. "Listen, I talked to Sanchez this morning."

"Okay?" Tim hasn't talked to Hector since that first phone call, hasn't felt the need or the courage. He's leaving Hector alone to heal, as instructed.

"You know how he started for the Grizzlies last night?" Buster grimaces. "He told me not to let you freak out, but he got hit in the head again."

Tim doesn't say anything. Underneath his hands the ball's stitching starts to unravel, the cover coming loose.

"Yeah." Buster stares at the ball, then visibly forces himself to look up at Tim's face. "I thought I should wait until you'd finished pitching to tell you about it."

"Is he okay?" asks Tim. The twine from inside the ball is spilling out over his fingers.

"He's back on the concussion list," says Buster. "He probably won't be back on the field for the rest of the year. Two concussions in two weeks, that's a lot. You can't just play through something like that."

Out on the field, Gutierrez gives up a two-run homer. By tonight they'll be four games back.

"I can't do this," Tim wants to say, but he swallows it. This isn't about him.

"Hey, Timmy," says Bochy, out of the corner of his mouth. 

"What's up?" Tim pushes the ruined ball into his pocket, turns away from Buster.

Bochy looks at Tim with kind eyes, which makes Tim want to punch something. "I guess Buster told you?"

Tim nods and looks away, watching the mess on the field. 

"It's tough," says Bochy. "Right? Tough. I know you two were getting to be pretty close. It's always good to have another team player around."

"Yeah, well," says Tim, and doesn't say anything else.

"Maybe it would be a good idea if you spent some time with Murph tonight," says Bochy. "Pack up some of the equipment, make sure everything feels right, nothing's lost its buzz. It's been a little while since you checked through everything."

"I can do that," says Tim. There's still thread from the ball clinging to his fingernails.

"Only if you want to," says Bochy. "I just think it might help. Murph's got a lifetime of experience. It could be nice for you to chat with him, take your mind off things."

"Sure," says Tim. "Sounds good." He might as well do something useful—he hasn't been much good to the team on the field.

\--- 

Tim picks up a bat and swings it, feeling the pop of a good charm expanding the contact area, easing the follow-through.

"These are all fine," says Tim, passing the bat off to one of Murph's minions. "Maybe needs a re-up around the end of the season."

"And it's been, what, seven months?" Murph shakes his head. "You just keep getting better, don't you?"

"I try." Tim smiles, even though that's not true. He doesn't have to try to be good at _this_.

"When I met this guy," Murph tells a clearly disinterested minion, "he couldn't make a charm last longer than a month. And that was still better than the last gear witch I met. I ever tell you about him, Timmy?"

"Yeah," says Tim, but he doesn't stop Murph from telling him again.

"Had to renew charms every week!" Murph shakes his head. "And he still got a job with Swenson, in-house magic. You ever think about doing that, if this pitching gig doesn't work out?"

"If this pitching gig doesn't work, I'm taking your job," says Tim. Murph laughs, and Tim keeps his smile fixed.

When Tim was first learning magic, everyone kept telling him how useful it was, how valuable it made him. But all he saw was the pitching. Now he sees Yamid, trying to beat cynicism into Tim's wide-eyed rookie brain, and he thinks he understands.

"Magic doesn't go like knees do." Yamid frowns down at his knees, twenty-eight years old and already stiff when he walks. He glances at Tim. "Or arms. It just gets stronger as you get older. Makes you valuable to keep around."

Tim, twenty-two and promoted from A- to A+ in less than a week, doesn't get it yet. He keeps staring out at the field, watching the opposing team like a particularly nonthreatening shark. "But it's just—it's a hobby, right? I'm here to _play_."

"Yeah, course," says Yamid. "But don't let this drop. You need every tool you can get, to stay in the majors. You need to be as useful as possible, as many ways as possible."

Yamid was in the Majors last year, played seventeen games. Now he's in single-A, playing tutor. Tim still hasn't figured out what that means, which is why he says something as dumb as "When I get into the majors I'm staying in with my pitching. I don't need anything else."

"Okay, whatever," says Yamid. "In the meantime, see if you can make that guy's cleats skid, make him miss his catch. Be useful when you're on the bench."

You'll see, Yamid doesn't say. You'll see, when it comes for you. Tim can hear it loud and clear with benefit of eight-years' hindsight.

"You've gone real quiet," says Murph. "What'cha thinking about?"

"Whether you'll ever retire," says Tim. He picks up a catcher's mask and hesitates, fingers tucking into the grill.

"That's just a back-up," says Murph. "Fits Sanchez, so we don't need to worry about it right now."

"Can borrow it?" asks Tim. "I wanna try something out."

"Be my guest," says Murph, and turns to the next piece of equipment.

Tim means to work on the mask on the plane, but he falls asleep with it in his lap instead. When he wakes up, Hunter's trying to pry the mask out of Tim's arms.

"Fuck off," mumbles Tim, tightening his grip.

"I just wanna see," says Hunter. "Just for a second."

The bats are rattling in the hold, and Tim's back aches from sleeping in the plane. He sighs and loosens his grip. Hunter plonks the mask on his head, or tries—it really doesn't fit him.

"Rally helmet?" asks Hunter.

"Get your own," says Tim, snatching it back before it can disappear into someone's locker like Bumgarner's ruined cowboy boots.

"We need a rally something." Hunter sighs and leans his chair back. Pagan doesn't even bother complaining anymore. "Where's that even year magic?"

"It's only August," says Pagan. "We're only four games back. Just need to make a couple changes, we're golden."

Tim closes his eyes and doesn't fall asleep again.


	12. Game 129

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/8/23/6061101/giants-nationals-tim-lincecum-drags-down-giants)

"You've been a big part of this team, Timmy." Bochy looks across the desk, earnest and completely unwilling to get to the point. "I want you to remember that."

Tim just looks at him.

"A big part," repeats Bochy. "I wouldn't want to change a thing. That no-hitter last month? That was big. Huge. It really rallied the team, we were on a roll."

"I get it," says Tim.

"It's just that it's so close," says Bochy. "With a record like ours, we have to make some tough decisions. Sometimes that means I can't give someone the space they need to get back on track. You know what I'm saying, Timmy?"

"I get it," repeats Tim.

"The world doesn't stand still, that's the problem." Bochy's fingers drum on the table. "Petit's pitching real well right now, and we need that edge. If Sanchez hadn't gotten hurt, maybe we could have—"

"Look, I understand," says Tim. "My mechanics are fucked up and I don't know where the ball is going and I don't pitch well to Susac. And we need to make it to the play-offs."

Bochy gives Tim a sharp look. "That's not exactly how I'd put it."

Tim looks down at his hands, watches them fidget.

"I think being in the bullpen could be good for you," says Bochy. "You can get some rest. You'll have the space to figure out your mechanics. We'll have you in our back pocket for when we need you, you'll still get playing time. It's just less pressure, right? Less pressure and more time."

Tim doesn't need time. He nods, though, because he can be professional.

"Anyway." Bochy sits back. "Murph tells me you're doing a real good job with the gear."

Tim gets out of Bochy's office as quickly as he can. He shakes hands with Bochy before he goes, assures him for the tenth time that he _gets it_ , he knows the season comes first. He's already got his line planned out for the reporters. Petit is sitting outside, waiting for the news that he's probably already figured out.

"Good luck on Thursday," says Tim, and holds out his hand for a fistbump.

"Oh, shit." Petit knocks knuckles, expression careful. "Yeah, wow. Thanks."

And then it's an off day, thank god, and Tim decides he doesn't care enough right now to do his normal workout routine. Righetti will look mildly disapproving tomorrow, maybe. He's not gonna worry about it right now.

He goes home.

He goes home, puts on his old black baseball cap, lies down on the couch, and takes a nap. Maybe when he wakes up he won't feel sorry for himself anymore.

\---

Tim's woken up by his phone ringing. He reaches out for it blindly, answers without tipping his hat back off of his face. "Hello?"

"Hi," says Hector. "I'm outside."

Tim sits up too quickly, dumping Cy off of his chest. Cy starts barking, and Tim plugs one ear to hear the phone better. "Outside where?"

"Your building," says Hector. "Can you tell the door guy to let me in?"

"Okay, uh, hold on—" Tim shoves his feet into some sandals, dodging around Cy who's still annoyed about getting dropped. He almost locks himself out but grabs his keys at the last second, heads for the elevator. "I'll come get you."

Hector hums and doesn't hang up—Tim keeps the connection open even though he doesn't really have anything to say.

It drops while he's in the elevator anyway.

There's Hector, looking alive and mostly well, wearing a 2012 World Series shirt and chatting to Diego the door guy in Spanish. Tim holds his arms out and Hector breaks away to hug him, careful like he's worried one of them will break.

"What are you doing here?" asks Tim.

"Yusmeiro called me," says Hector. "And I wanted to check in anyway."

"Come on, come up and sit down," says Tim. "How's your head? You didn't drive here, did you?"

" _Chao_ ," says Hector, as Tim drags him away from Diego. "No, no, my wife dropped me."

"Oh." Tim hesitates. "She could—we could all have lunch together, if you want?" He's met Elizabeth a couple times, she's nice. He doesn't want her to feel left out.

Hector laughs. "Maybe dinner, if you want. Elizabeth told me not to call for at least five hours, she wants some time to herself. This time of year, usually I'm not around. She likes it but she's not used to it, you know?"

Tim punches the button for the elevator. "Yeah. Always weird to have free time around now."

Tim chatters in the elevator, finding out about Hector's kid and his recovery and what kind of music he's been listening to. Cy barrels up when Tim opens the door to his apartment, doing that weird forward-back-forward thing that dogs do when there's someone unexpected in their space, barking the whole time.

Hector sits down on the couch and lets Cy get used to him. Tim almost gets a couple beers, then gets tied up trying to figure out if that's bad for concussions, then gets water instead. When he comes back Cy is pressed against Hector's thigh, and Hector has that catcher's mask in his hands.

"Is this one of mine?" asks Hector.

"I'm not putting a forcefield on it." Tim sets a glass down at Hector's elbow. "Just—I don't know what I'm doing with it, actually. I'm figuring it out."

Hector hums and spins the mask in his big hands, sets it down. "You wanna talk?"

Tim hasn't shut up in the last ten minutes, but he won't pretend that he doesn't know what Hector wants. "It's whatever," he says. "It's what's good for the team."

Hector looks at him, one hand rubbing Cy's ears. "So, no."

"No," agrees Tim, and then they just sit there for a while. 

"Nice place," says Hector, looking around. 

"Thanks," says Tim. It is, probably because he's never here. He's glad he rents an apartment now instead of a furnished place—he gets to pick the furniture himself and no one complains if he messes it up a little bit. He says something about the dining room table, because it's kind of a cool story, and Hector nods.

"So, we've got five hours," says Hector. "What do we do without baseball? What do you do for fun?"

"Videogames, mostly," says Tim. "Or, uh, watch more baseball."

"I used up all my screen time already." Hector makes a wry face. "I gotta be careful so I won't get sick and mess up your nice floors."

Tim winces and tries to think. Everything he does seems to involve screens. Well, like, almost everything.

"Is weed bad for concussions?"

Hector stops petting Cy's ears and Cy immediately starts whining. "Seriously? It's August, man." 

"You're on the DL," says Tim. "And I, uh. The drug testing equipment tends to break down when I'm around."

"Oh, really?" Hector relents and rubs Cy's entire face until Cy starts sneezing. "Okay, yeah. That sounds pretty good."

Tim's got a small jar in his fridge that still has a couple buds in it, and after a few minutes he manages to find his pipe in a drawer with his cutlery. He's not really sure why the cleaning service put it there.

"I usually don't smoke during the season," he says as he turns off the smoke alarm and puts some music on shuffle. "But, you know, special occasions—"

"You don't need to explain," says Hector. "To be honest I was smoking yesterday already. It helps with the nausea, you know?"

Tim lets him have the first hit, out of deference to the infirm. Hector takes it easily, blowing smoke into Cy's face to start him sneezing again. Tim laughs as Cy scuttles into his lap, takes the pipe from Hector's fingers.

"I'm sorry I didn't call before I came," says Hector. "I didn't—We haven't talked, you know?"

Tim takes a hit, feeling it settle slowly into his system. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Yeah." Hector takes the pipe as Tim passes it back. "I appreciate it."

"Nothing fun about being on the DL," says Tim.

"Not much," says Hector. "Well, I got to see my daughter's dance thing. She looked great."

Hector talks about that for a while, and Tim pets his dog and helping make smoke disappear. Sometimes weed makes him feel jittery and a little paranoid, but today it's just relaxed, relaxed, listening to Hector talk about children's ballet and watching the heavy lines on Hector's forehead smooth away.

Tim catches himself singing along to Hall and Oates when they come on, catches Hector grinning at him. "I like this song," says Tim, and Hector laughs.

"I'm really glad you started teaching me," says Hector. "Even if you can't sing."

"Yeah?" Tim squirms sideways on the couch, letting his toes rest against Hector's thigh. "I haven't done much teaching."

"You've showed me a lot," Hector leans back, closing his eyes as he takes another hit. "It's cool. I dunno why no one else cares."

"They care," says Tim. Bochy cares a hell of a lot, he's made that clear. "They just don't want the details. You don't see a lot of players hanging around the bat factory either."

"I went on a tour of one once," says Hector. "Pretty nice."

"Weirdo," says Tim.

"I tried to show my daughter," says Hector. "I held her hand before the dance thing and I cast just a little spell, you know? Just to make her less nervous. But she said she don't feel anything except 'normal Daddy.'" His fingers sketch air-quotes in the haze.

"This stuff isn't flashy," says Tim. "It is just normal."

"Who was that guy you learned from?" Hector frowns, trying to remember. "Hamid?"

"Hagrid," suggests Tim.

"I'm serious," says Hector. "I wanna know."

"Yamid Haad," says Tim, relenting. "He was a catcher too."

"Never heard of him," says Hector.

"No," says Tim. "You wouldn't have."

Picture this—Tim spreads his hands, opens up a window into that past—Tim, fresh-faced and snotty-nosed, just drafted, ready to pitch for the great Salem-Keizer Volcanoes. The manager, Steve Decker, pulls Tim into the office.

"You ever meet Decker? Bright red Hulk Hogan mustache, does yoga, weirdly into gummy bears..."

"Nah." Hector shakes his head. "I came up in Dominica, you know? Then Augusta, San Jose—never got sent to Oregon."

"It's not like I was there long," says Tim.

Anyway, fresh-faced, snot-nosed Tim. Decker, all lines and a fake grin. "Yamid tells me you've got the touch."

"What?" asks Tim.

"The touch." Decker leans over his desk a little, confiding. "The gift. The special stuff."

"Is this about my fastball?"

"No." Decker taps the side of his nose. "It's about the magic."

"Jesus Christ," says Hector. "Just like that?"

"I was pretty sure it was about drugs," says Tim. "Like... ninety percent sure he was asking me if I was a dealer."

"It's not about fucking drugs," says Decker. "Also, if I catch you doing any kind of drugs, I'll drop you out the goddamn window. We don't need anymore of that, everyone's still mad about Barry Bonds."

"Sorry," mutters Tim. "But I don't know—"

"Yeah, I'm getting that." Decker sits back, snorts to himself. "Okay. You ever wonder how baseball works the way it does? Why some people seem to hit every time they step up to the plate, why balls that should be homeruns fall into a fielder's hand, why a pitcher keeps throwing balls and getting them called strikes? Why the Cubs never win and the Yankees always do?"

"Not really," says Tim. "Just luck, I guess."

"It's not luck," says Decker. "It's magic. And you've got it, some kind of _it_."

Tim remembers sitting there for a while, trying to figure out if Decker was drunk or off his nut or...

"Is this because I'm Filipino?"

"No!" Decker gets a shifty look that says 'maybe, a little.' "Look, anyone can be magic. Yamid's magic, a little bit. He can smell it on you. It's a handy thing to be."

"How come you hadn't heard about this before?" asks Hector.

"Magic's against NCAA rules," says Tim. "They test for it when they test for PEDs, they just don't tell anyone."

"Magic is in your urine?" Hector pushes Tim in the side, and Tim flops a little. "You're fucking with me."

Tim shrugs—he doesn't know the details. Not that he hadn't spent a while staring at his own piss in the urinal, right after Decker explained it to him, trying to see if it sparkled or anything else weird.

Fortunately Yamid had come and found him before he got too weird, taken him under his arm for all of the five days Tim had pitched for the Volcanoes. When Tim had been sent up to San Jose, Yamid had come with. Tim's pretty sure that wasn't a coincidence.

"He was a catcher, like I said." Tim closes his eyes, and the past melts away. "And he could do anything with a ball. Make it float where he wanted, miss fielder's gloves, skid into the strike zone."

"Why haven't I head of him?" asks Hector.

"Never made it in the big leagues," says Tim. "He couldn't keep the magic up, he got tired too quick. And, well. Magic isn't everything. Just an edge, and everyone in the majors has some kind of edge."

Hector passes back the pipe, but it's pretty much out. Tim takes the last hit and sets it out of Cy's reach.

"You like doing magic?" asks Hector.

"Sure," says Tim.

Hector groans and grabs at Tim's ankle, yanks on it. Cy barks and goes running; Tim squeaks but can't get coordinated enough to do the same. He ends up just letting Hector manhandle him until Tim is turned around and leaning against Hector's side, tucked under one arm.

"You like doing magic?" asks Hector, something pulsing behind his tone and in his blood, and Tim says:

"I remember when I used to, when I could charm a glove and feel giddy about it. But I don't remember what it felt like, I can't figure out how to enjoy it. It's like the pitching, it's just _gone_."

"Shit," says Hector, eyes wide.

"Did you make me say that?" Tim struggles out from under Hector's arm. "I mean, did you make me tell you—"

"I didn't mean to," starts Hector, and then corrects himself. "I didn't think it would work."

"That's so _cool_ ," says Tim, too high to be worried about anything. He's high enough that he can't turn his sight off, he's seeing magic everywhere and especially on Hector, bright orange light sparking off his skin.

"You really feel like that?" asks Hector.

"Yeah, I guess," says Tim. "I say stuff like that all the time."

"No, you don't," says Hector.

"Yeah, I—" Tim hesitates. "I _think_ stuff like that all the time."

"If I ask you how you feel, you say 'good,'" says Hector. "Good, good, good. And I'm pretty sure you're not always good, I know, but I don't know how you really feel."

"I don't want to bring you down," says Tim. He's not really succeeding, this time around. 

"You don't have to do magic," says Hector. "You could stop and the team would be okay, I think. I could do it for you, that's why I'm learning."

"It's fine," says Tim. "I'm good—"

Hector claps his hand over Tim's mouth. Tim pries it away.

"It's _fine_ ," he insists. "I don't mind. I want to like it again. I just don't want it to be everything I do."

"You're a good pitcher," says Hector.

"I was a great pitcher," says Tim.

Hector doesn't say anything. He pulls Cy into his lap instead, the universal sign of 'I'm really lost here and I'm really glad there's an animal to distract me.' Cy puts up with it, because he's a good boy.

"When you're young," says Tim, "you think that you're in control. You think that if you just work hard enough, things will fall into place, and that if they don't it's probably because you were never meant to do it anyway. You think that the world has meaning to it."

Hector keeps petting Tim's dog.

"And then you get older, and you realize that it's all just random," says Tim. "Some days you wake up and your mechanics don't work anymore. Some days you wake up and you throw a no-hitter. You can give yourself better chances, you can work and work, but you can't make the universe give you what you want. You just have to take what you get."

"But you get magic," says Hector.

"Woooo," says Tim, already feeling like an asshole. "Hooray."

It's never mattered as much as the pitching. He doesn't want to be good at it. This was supposed to be a hobby, not a career.

Hector reaches out to him, and Tim leans back. "Don't make me say it out loud," he says. "It's not fun to say, and it's not fun to listen to."

"Okay." Hector lets his hand fall. "Then let's do something fun."

\---

They go to the A's game. Hector's got a buddy who can't use his tickets, and Tim puts real clothes on again and gets out a couple pairs of sunglasses so hopefully no one will bust them.

They're chunky green plastic sunglasses from a hotel across the street that keeps giving them away. Hector makes a face as he puts them on.

"They're the only ones I got that aren't Giants-branded," says Tim, stuffing his hair into a knit cap. "Giants stuff doesn't make for a good disguise."

Hector frowns. "You still look like Tim Lincecum, man."

"Hold on, hold on, I'm not done." Tim dives back into his closet, comes out wearing a Mariners jersey. "Ta-da!"

"Agh." Hector shields his eyes. "Please take that off."

"The perfect cover," says Tim. "Come on, we can take the BART to test it out."

"Bochy's gonna be so mad when this hits ESPN," says Hector, but he puts the sunglasses on and follows.

They make it to the Coliseum without any trouble, just a few double-takes and a lot more frowns directed at Tim's jersey as they get closer to the ballpark. They slide into their seats during the second inning with a couple overpriced sodas and a pretzel.

"I can't believe how expensive this was." Tim stuffs the pretzel into his mouth. "I feel personally victimized by this."

"You're making millions and millions of dollars." Hector props his feet up on the empty seat in front of him. "You can afford a pretzel."

"I could afford two pretzels if they weren't—"

"About half as much as a pretzel at our park?" Hector laughs.

"I never have to pay for stuff over there." The last of the pretzel disappears, and Tim settles in for the game.

They're up in the second tier of seats, to the left of home plate, and it's been a long time since Tim watched a game from this far away. It's kind of nice, the level of detachment you get. The players are just points of white and grey, marring the even symmetry of the field. Tim spends a little while pretending to squash Scott Kazmir between his thumb and forefinger, then feels bad when Kazmir gives up a two-run homer to the next batter.

"What kind of magic do the A's have?" asks Hector.

"Just look around," says Tim. "It's pretty easy to spot. Just be prepared for the fans."

Hector pulls Tim's old glasses from his pocket, pushing up the sunglasses and jamming the magic glasses on his head. Tim grins as Hector's eyes widen, then squeeze shut.

"Ow," says Hector. "Damn."

Tim still hasn't managed to get his vision under control, so he's been seeing it the whole time: the stabs of green and gold rising from every A's fan in the park after each pitch and every hit. They're only one game back from the Angels, just lost the lead and railing to get it back. There's answering flashes of red wherever Angels fans are concentrated, just as bright and fervent. Everyone wants to go to the postseason. Everyone wants to keep playing.

Hector's still staring out at the crowd, though he's put the sunglasses over the glasses to try and get some eye protection. "Does that do anything?" 

Tim shrugs. "You always play better at home, right? Look at the field."

Hector manages to pull his eyes to the field, and does another little double-take. Tim snickers.

All of the A's are outlined in silver. It's mismatched and rusty in places, but it tick tick ticks, overwhelming the noise of the crowd the longer you stare at it. Every player has his place, and the magic makes sure they know it.

"They're a machine," says Hector. "Who did that?"

"You're a people person," says Tim. "Billy Beane's a cyborg person."

Hector laughs, even if it isn't that funny. Tim's met Beane a few times, and he tries to stay out of the man's line of sight. He doesn't like being _assessed_. It took years for the sheen of silver to fade off Zito, even if his magic didn't really go well with Beane's. Tim has an uncomfortable feeling that Beane would love his magic.

Chavez replaces Kazmir and promptly gives up three runs because sometimes magic isn't everything. Sometimes you've got all the right parts and it still doesn't work out.

Or, you know. Tim's heard a lot of rumors about Mike Trout summoning the spirits of departed Angels players to sway the game. Trout won't talk about it, just says that necromancy's against the treaty and he'd never do anything to violate the treaty. Pretty much what a necromancer would say.

They stand up for the seventh inning stretch and try to remember all the words to God Bless America. Tim's heard it often enough but he never pays attention—he keeps losing track of which verse they're on and letting his voice fall to a mumble. He grins when he notices Hector doing the same thing. They come in strong for Take Me Out to the Ball Game, though, and Tim closes his eyes against the pure white rolling magic that pulses through the crowd with every note of the organ. When he opens them again the lights are gone, his high finally fading.

"So cool," says Hector, eyes glazed and clearly still a little stoned. Tim laughs and pulls him back down to his seat. "Admit it," says Hector. "It's cool."

"Very cool," says Tim. The A's finally get a run, scrabbling their way to a loss. He leans against Hector and drinks his flat soda, thinks about how he'll need to do a double work-out tomorrow to make up for all this slacking off.

"I want another pretzel," he decides. "Come on, I'll buy you garlic fries."

It takes a whole inning to make it through the concessions line, and Tim still has half a pretzel when the A's finally collapse. He sits with Hector to finish it as the stadium empties out.

"My wife's gonna pick us up," says Hector, gingerly poking at his phone. "You still wanna get dinner after all those pretzels?"

"Yeah," says Tim, and shoves the entire pretzel into his mouth. "Cnskqsn?"

"What?"

"Can I ask you a question?" Tim enunciates. Hector shrugs.

"Could you, uh." Tim wishes he still had the pretzel to use as a shield. "Do you think you could make me a better pitcher?"

"Tim, oh my god," says Hector. "What do you think I've been trying to do?"

"Oh," says Tim, and gets up. Hector follows him down the aisle, talking at the back of his head.

"Every time I caught for you, I was just pushing—I feel like I have this energy, you know, and I just keep trying to push it into your arm, into your head. And I didn't know if it was working, if it was doing anything, and then I got _hit_ —"

"Thanks for sticking around," says the usher. "Hard game, huh?"

"Yeah," says Tim.

"Hey." The usher narrows her eyes, peering at him. "Are you—"

"I thought maybe I was doing it wrong," says Hector, barreling past the usher and her dawning realization. "I thought—maybe I'm just making him feel better, not helping his pitching. And then I thought, maybe if I make him feel better then it does help the pitching. But I didn't know, I don't know, and—"

Tim stops walking, and Hector nearly knocks him down the stairs.

"I like throwing to you," says Tim. "It feels good."

"Like, actually good?" asks Hector. "Or..."

"It feels right," says Tim. "It feels like it's working."

They start walking again, and Hector puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, warm. Now that Tim's looking for it, he can feel Hector pushing reassurance against his skin, maybe a little more than that.

"Next year," says Hector, quietly. "I'll be back next year. We'll figure it out."

"Next year," says Tim. It feels a little silly to be thinking ahead to next season when this one isn't over yet, but yeah. He's ready.

"I really hope I'm back next year," says Hector, but it's so quiet that Tim thinks he wasn't meant to hear.


	13. Game 148

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/9/10/6132765/tim-lincecum-bullpen-giants-postseason-roster)

The first three relief outings don't go super well. Tim can't get used to the rhythm of it, not knowing when he's going to go out or what kind of situation he'll be facing. He's a control freak—he likes dealing with messes he's made for himself, not coming in to clean up for the starter's mistakes.

It's probably karma from Tim doing this to dozens of relievers over the years, but honestly Tim thinks he's had enough karma for this season.

It's the waiting that gets to him. Tim takes to hanging off the railing next to Bochy to watch the game. He doesn't say anything, just fidgets and hopes he isn't too obvious. Put me in coach? Put me in?

Bochy puts Tim into a Dodgers game after Hudson gives up four runs in two innings. Tim comes in with two inherited runners and immediately gives up a million runs to the Dodgers.

Take me out, coach, take me out. Tim keeps pitching to a sure loss, because what else are you going to do? 

Hector comes over again after that loss, when Tim is lying in bed with a heating pad on his shoulder. Tim struggles up to get to the elevator.

Hector _and_ Elizabeth are chatting with Diego the door guy, this time. Tim straightens up and tries to look more presentable, even though he's wearing sweatpants covered in dog hair.

"Hey," says Hector. "I have a plan."

"Hi, great to see you," says Tim to Elizabeth. "Are you still chauffeuring Hector around?"

"Yeah, I need something to do while the kid's at dance class," says Elizabeth. "Also he needed someone to carry all this stuff."

They've got about five shopping bags between them. "It's part of the plan," says Hector. "Come on, let's go. You got a bathtub?"

"Am I going to like this plan?" asks Tim. 

"I've been talking to Zito," says Hector. So, no. Probably not.

"What's in the bags?" Tim swipes his key to open the elevator. "Bye, Diego."

Diego waves. Hopefully he won't sell any stories to Sports Illustrated.

Elizabeth grins. "Eye of newt, that kind of thing."

"It is not," says Hector. "Gross."

"Okay," says Elizabeth. "Leg of newt."

It turns out to be a bunch of stuff scavenged from AT&T Park. Hector rescued Tim's game-day uniform from the laundry, which is actually a little grosser than eye of newt would have been. Hector still bullies Tim into wearing it while Elizabeth runs a bath.

"What is this for?" asks Tim.

"I'm gonna make you a reliever," says Hector. "Come on, hat too."

Tim jams the cap down on his head, his orange-and-black one that doesn't have any sentimental value or magical powers. Hector studies the effect.

"Did you watch the game?" asks Tim.

"Elizabeth made me turn it off," says Hector. "I didn't like watching you pitch to Quiroz, and I was gonna try to curse somebody but I couldn't figure out who."

Tim laughs and Hector pushes him into the bathroom.

The tub is full of... stuff. Mostly it looks like shreds of balls and gloves, along with a couple shards of busted bats.

"Get in," says Hector.

"I'm gonna get a splinter," says Tim.

"Come on," says Elizabeth. "He's been working on this all day, don't disappoint him."

Tim gets in. Hector immediately dumps mud all over his head.

"Oh my god," sputters Tim, glad that the hat protected his eyes. Elizabeth is giggling, and Cy is barking from where he's been locked in Tim's bedroom so he wouldn't disturb the vibe.

"It's from the mound," says Hector. "You owe the grounds crew fifty, by the way."

"Why am _I_ paying for this?" asks Tim.

"Shh," says Elizabeth. "Listen."

Hector unfolds a piece of paper. "Fill yourself with baseball. Fill yourself with mindfulness. Fill yourself with the universal force. Tim, are you listening?"

"Yeah," says Tim. He wants to rinse off the mud that's dripping into his ears, but the bathwater is also basically mud at this point.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "You're supposed to say 'I hear you, universal force.'"

"I hear you, universal force," says Tim.

Hector rummages through the empty bags and produces a packet of Big League Chew. He takes out a handful, dunks it in the water, and proffers it.

"Fuck no," says Tim. Elizabeth is giggling again.

"Take this symbol from the universal force," intones Hector, sneaking glances at the sheet of paper. "Take it into the core of your being."

Tim picks up the dirty gum out of Hector's hand, closes his eyes, and shoves it into his mouth.

It tastes like sugar and grit, and it dissolves on his tongue until only a chewy little ball of rubber is left.

"Swallow," says Hector, and Tim does.

He doesn't feel different, when he opens his eyes. He feels wet and cold, and there's dirt in a bunch of uncomfortable places.

"Is this really magic, or just Zito fucking with us?" he asks.

Hector shrugs. "Your hair's getting long. You growing a moustache again?"

Tim holds a protective hand in front of his face. "I'm starting on a playoff beard. I'm not shaving it off."

"It looks nice," says Elizabeth. "Look, clean up for real and we'll go to dinner. Food will fix what magic won't."

She goes out and Tim hears the wild barking that means she's taken pity on Cy and released him from his bedroomy prison.

"Can I marry your wife?" asks Tim.

"Uh, no, obviously." Hector takes off Tim's muddy hat and ruffles his hair. Tim half-flinches, because he appreciates the gesture but Hector's hands are filthy. "But I think she's right."

"About dinner?"

"Yeah." Hector grins. "But I guess the moustache doesn't look so bad either."

Tim relieves in three more games, and no one gets a hit off him. He gets his 100th win. The Giants are going to the Wild Card game.

"It was the moustache," he tells Hector, in a corner with one hand up to shield his phone from the ongoing champagne bath.

"It was the mud," says Hector.

"It was dinner!" shouts Elizabeth, barely audible over the connection.

"Maybe I'm just good at pitching," says Tim. Bumgarner is double-fisting beer right next to him and getting way more beer on himself and Tim's shoulder than into his mouth.

"Maybe," Hector allows. "But the mud definitely helped."

\---

In between the end of the season and the Wild Card game, Tim is lying on his bed with his old hat and his dog, talking to his dad. It feels like deja vu for the last ten years or so.

"I'm glad you made the postseason roster," says his dad. "You think you're going to pitch at all?"

"Depends how things work out," says Tim. "We have don't have much space for me to fuck up."

His dad's quiet for a long time. Tim picks up the catcher's mask from beside his bed and puts it on his chest, trying to figure out what to do to it again.

"I wish you sounded happier," says his dad.

"I can _sound_ happy," says Tim. "I am happy, I'm going to the postseason."

"That's not what I meant." His dad sighs. "This has just been a tough year. I want you to have an easy one again. I want your mechanics to be perfect and the magic stuff to be less distracting—"

"It's not that distracting," says Tim, who's still trying to make a not-forcefield on the catcher's mask with his mind.

"—and I want Sanchez to be healthy. I want everything to be good."

"There's always next year," says Tim. "Anyway, how's stuff at home?"

Tim's dad talks for a while, and then has to go get groceries or something. Tim lets the phone fall from his hand and picks up the catcher's mask again.

He doesn't know what he should do to it, so he just closes his eyes and pushes with everything he's got, every aching nameless feeling that he's called 'good,' every time Hector's made him feel like this season was worth it, every shitty start and every good one. He opens his eyes again, but the mask doesn't glow or tingle or anything. It just sits there, solid and real.

"All right," says Tim, and gently pushes Cy off the bed. "Let's go for a walk."


	14. Postseason

[ ](http://www.mccoveychronicles.com/2014/10/7/6943499/dodgers-nlds)

It's ten minutes before the start of the World Series, Bochy's told Tim to be prepared to come in for relief, and Tim is fucking throwing up in the bathroom.

"Okay, breathe," says the trainer. "In, and out, and in, and—"

Tim retches and completely fails to stop hyperventilating.

"Come on, rinse out your mouth." The trainer passes Tim an open bottle of water. "What did you have to eat today?"

Tim spits into the toiler. "Normal stuff, I don't know."

"Sure." The trainer twists, shouts over the door. "Hey, tell Bochy that Timmy is—"

"Fine to pitch," says Tim, hoarsely.

"Okay, whatever," says the trainer. "Wait here for a second."

He walks out, presumably to tell whoever's outside that Tim is definitely dying. Tim, left to himself, coughs, chokes, and finally spits out a round little pellet, unnatural pink and spotted with dirt.

He stares at it for a while. Then he wipes his mouth with some toilet paper and flushes.

"How we doing?" asks the trainer.

Tim stands up on shaky legs. "I'm okay."

"What kind of okay?" The trainer does the annoying trainer thing where he tries to look at Tim's eyes and check his pulse without acting like anything is wrong.

"I'm good," says Tim. "I feel good."

"Uh-huh." The trainer actually produces a little light. "Say ah. You've missed pregame intros."

"Fuck."

"Say _ah_." The trainer stares at Tim's tongue for a while. "All right, it's probably just something you ate. Rinse out your mouth and get some juice or something."

"I'm fine to pitch?" asks Tim.

"You tell me," says the trainer.

Tim rinses out his mouth, changes his jersey, drinks some juice. He texts Hector about _developments_.

 **Hector:** oh shit  
**Hector:** sorry!!!!  
**Hector:** hey maybe it was the moustache after all  
**Tim:** I shaved again asshole  
**Hector:** shit what did you do that for  
**Tim:** idk you kept making fun of it  
**Hector:** ok good luck!!!  
**Tim:** you fucker

Tim doesn't pitch that day, which is probably a good thing. He tries to think about it as a good thing, nausea and anxiety curling around themselves in his stomach.

They win. That's the important thing, right? Tim can be a team player. Bumgarner pitches practically the entire thing, and they don't need Tim.

In Game 2 Jake Peavy pitches, and the Giants bullpen basically collapses. Bochy sends Tim to warm up. Bochy sends Tim to the mound.

There's no safety net. This game is all but lost, but this is Tim's proving ground right here. He needs to show that he can do it, without weird mud magic or his 100+ fastball, just four pitches and some good control. Tim can light this up all on his own, as the pitcher he is now.

For once, everything clicks.

Tim throws a ball to start with, but then Dyson pops the next one straight into Ishikawa's glove. He gets Cain out with one pitch, an immediate groundout to Crawford. He's making the defense move around a little more than he used to, but that's just the kind of pitcher Tim is now. He's making it work.

Hosmer strikes out swinging. Tim doesn't smile too much, because they're still behind. But it feels pretty awesome.

"Okay, you've got it," says Buster, in the dugout. "Just keep it together. You're watching my signs, right?"

"Of course," says Tim, even though there's no of course about it. But he is.

"This is good," says Bochy. "This is real good, Timmy."

Tim just taps his feet and waves at the camera trained on the dugout. He hopes Hector's watching this.

When Tim goes out again, he's still got it together. He strikes Willingham out, even though it takes seven pitches to get there. Gordon pops up to Sandoval. Maybe Tim will close this game out, carry the team through to the end. Just four more batters to go.

Tim throws to Perez and nearly falls over, catching himself on one foot and both hands and his back screeches at him.

This really can't be it. This can't be it.

Tim tries two more pitches, and they just suck.

"Do you need a trainer out here?" asks Buster, on the mound.

Tim's walking around, feeling his back pull with every step. The crowd is antsy and impatient, not nervous and indulgent like the home crowd would be. The KC crowd, they don't want him hurt but they do want his blood.

"Tim?" asks Buster.

Tim looks up at the big field lights. "Yeah," he says, at last. "I think I'm probably done."

Tim spends the off day in an MRI, and they don't find anything permanent. Probably just a bad fall, get some rest, don't work yourself up.

Tim spends Game 3 sitting around and trying not to twitch himself into a strained muscle. It's a tense game so it's a struggle, but Tim takes a deep breath and tries not to care so much. He can't get hurt again.

 **Tim:** I felt great in game 2 you know? like I didn't need the extra help  
**Tim:** but like was the back thing what I gave in exchange? or just coincidence  
**Hector:** maybe the moustache was connected to your spine  
**Tim:** if I pull my back laughing I'm coming after you  
**Hector:** SORRY

Pretty much every pitcher in the team goes into Game 4, to the point that Tim's leaning on the railing, stretching his back and pretending that he's ready to go in. Bochy smiles at him and doesn't break the illusion. Petit racks up the win.

"I could go back in," says Tim, at one of the post-game pressers. "You know, if I'm needed. It's the World Series, I'll do whatever the team needs."

"Real team-player," the reporter says into his microphone. Tim gives him a look, but the reporter doesn't seem to pick up on it.

Bumgarner pitches all of Game 5. Tim just watches in awe and a little bit of envy. 

"How do you do that?" he asks his dad, over the phone. All right, maybe it's a lot of envy. "An entire game, in the World Series."

"It's just like any other game," says his dad. "You can't think about it like it's special."

Tim laughs. It never stops feeling special, even when he can't trust himself to pitch without falling over.

"I wonder what they'll do for Game Seven," says his dad. "I mean, if there is a Game Seven. Bochy can't send Bumgarner back out there on a couple days rest."

"He can," says Tim. Whether he will, though, that's the question.

Tim's feeling a little better. His back doesn't twinge when he moves anymore, and he's pitched a couple bullpen sessions, feeling it out. But he doesn't know if Bochy would trust him, for something like this, when there really isn't a safety net. Tim doesn't know if he'd trust himself.

Game Six is basically over when the Royals get seven runs in the second inning. After it's actually, officially over, Bochy comes and finds Tim in the clubhouse.

Tim catches his breath, anxiety in his stomach again, and tries not to anticipate whatever Bochy wants to say to him.

He's ready to give anything to this team.

"Timmy." Bochy sits down on the bench, familiar but not too close. He pats Tim on the arm. "I need to ask you about something."

Tim waits for it.

"You and Sanchy did something last month, I think. You had a couple difficult outings, and then you came back and you looked a lot better. You don't have to tell me the details, I don't want to know the details. But there was something going on, back there. Right?"

Tim looks around, more out of habit than because he thinks anyone's listening in. "Yeah. We tried a couple things, I don't know if they worked."

"We're so close," says Bochy. "You remember what I said, about being this close? You have to make some tough decisions."

"Whatever you need," says Tim. The ritual may have been disgusting, it might not have worked, and it might have fucked up his back. He'd absolutely do it again to get that third ring. He'd absolutely do it again to get his team there.

"Bumgarner's worn out," says Bochy. "He thinks he can pitch, but I've seen people make this mistake before. In fact, I've made this mistake before. You just don't let guys pitch when they're not rested, you know? When they're not healthy."

"Yeah," says Tim. "I get it."

"But if I could _get_ him rested," says Bochy. "Well, that's another matter entirely, isn't it?"

"Yeah, exactly," says Tim, and then he feels the bottom start to drop out from under him.

"If you could do that for Bumgarner, that would give us our best shot for the Series," Bochy is saying. "I'm not going to _start_ him tomorrow, but if you could get him in shape to relieve? That would be a big help for the team, probably the biggest. You think we can make that happen?"

"Yeah," says Tim, staring into nothing. "Sounds good."

Bochy peers at him. "Only if you think you can, though. I don't want to pressure you, I know these kinds of things take a lot out of a player. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we needed it."

Tim nods and keeps nodding.

"Listen, I'll leave you to think about it," says Bochy. "Think about whether it's feasible, okay? If you really think you can do it. I worry about you, Timmy, I always worry I'm asking too much. But—"

"But you need it," says Tim.

Bochy nods and looks apologetic and walks off.

There's one game left, and the Series is tied. Tim pretends like he has a choice.

 **Tim:** start packing  
**Hector:** why???  
**Tim:** you're gonna help us win the world series  
**Hector:** ???????

Hector tries to call. Tim doesn't answer.

\---

Bochy pays for Hector's ticket and anything else they need. Bochy is overjoyed. Bochy really thinks this is going to work, thank heaven for team players.

Tim meets Hector at the airport. Hector's stopped looking dizzy all the time, which is honestly awesome, so the lingering grogginess is probably just the early-morning flight. And having to lug around a duffel bag full of baseball detritus.

"Did you ever find out from Zito whether this is a real thing?" asks Tim.

"Didn't wanna ask." Hector slings the bag into the rental car. "Didn't really wanna know."

Tim pulls out of the airport and into truly hellish traffic, the natural Kansas City snarl made a thousand times worse by people trying to get to the game or even just trying to get somewhere _near_ the game. Tim feels smug for a moment, thinking about how he's going to have one of the best possible seats.

"By the way, I got you a ticket," he says. "I told Bochy it was part of the spell."

"Did he buy that?"

"Probably not."

"Thanks." Hector smiles, knuckles rapping lightly against the mirror. "Don't like watching from the stands, though."

"Yeah?" Tim matches the smile, strained and genuine all at once. "I don't like watching from the bench either."

Hector's quiet for a while. "I saw you fall," he says at last. "I made the TV explode by accident."

Tim laughs, almost unwillingly. "What did Elizabeth think of that?"

"I'm only allowed to watch games in the basement now." Hector sighs. "Look, I feel like you don't really want to do this."

"It doesn't matter what I want." 

Hector looks like he's going to argue, so Tim flips on the radio. It's a huge mistake; there's not a station in KC that hasn't been playing _Royals_ on loop. He switches it to NPR, to pop-country, back to _Royals_ , to ESPN, and finally off entirely. 

"You know what your problem is?" asks Hector.

"Mechanics," says Tim. "Control. Probably the moustache too, but I got rid of it."

"Your problem is you think everything's either or," says Hector. " _Either_ I'm pitching _or_ I'm a witch. _Either_ I'm pitching _or_ I'm miserable. _Either_ I'm the best _or_ it's not worth it."

"I don't," says Tim, but he can't actually come up with an argument why not.

"If you think about the magic as a, you know, a consolation prize? It's not good, I agree." Hector presses a hand against Tim's shoulder. "But it's a bonus. There are lots of pitchers who aren't playing today, Tim. There are hundreds of guys on the DL who can't play. We're the only two who still get to make a difference."

Hector's hand is warm and he makes sense, and Tim still feels like he's failing. "My dad thinks you should have had another couple years in the minors," he says. "He thinks you got called up too early and it wrecked your development."

Hector's hand tightens. "Oh well," he says, not quite calm. "I'm here. I almost caught a perfect game and I did catch a no-hitter, and I got to be on the team, and I got to learn magic. I don't want to trade what I've got for what I might have had."

"Okay," says Tim.

"Okay?" asks Hector.

"Not yet," says Tim. "But I'm working on it."

Hector lets him go and settles back into his chair. "Do you think they'll put me on the roster? I can be Designated _Brujo_."

"It never hurts to ask," says Tim. "As long as you're okay with Bochy laughing at you."

"I've never gotten to catch at the World Series," says Hector. "You know I was DH last time?"

"I remember," says Tim. He's almost missed his exit, he needs to concentrate on driving more and life revelations less.

"Didn't even get to catch Zito." Hector raps on the window again. "Your dad's right, a little bit. This isn't how I thought my life would be, you know?"

"Better or worse?" asks Tim.

"Dunno." Hector stops rapping. "I guess it depends if I get to keep playing."

Tim nearly misses his exit and resolves to stop looking at Hector until he's done driving. "Look in the backseat," he says instead. "I got something for you."

Hector twists and snags the catcher's mask that Tim's been dragging around everywhere. "I saw this before. Did you—okay. Okay. Wow."

Tim's still not sure what he did to that mask, but Hector sounds pretty impressed. Tim keeps his eyes glued to the road. "Now you've got your own magic hat. For now, and for next year."

"Tim," says Hector. "Tim."

He doesn't manage to say anything else until they get to the stadium.

\---

Tim puts on his old scuffed black hat. Hector settles the catcher's mask over his head. Show time.

Hector didn't want to do this in a hotel and Kauffman doesn't have bathtubs, so someone went out and bought an aluminum tub and put it in the shower room. Bumgarner definitely doesn't fit. 

He's also brought a rubber duck with him—Tim doesn't think he's taking this super seriously.

"Hey, Tim?" asks Sandoval, inching into the shower room.

"What's up?" Tim watches as Hector produces one thing after another from the duffel—candles, bat pieces, vulture feathers... "Hector, this is way more intense than last time."

"It's the World Series," says Hector.

"Can we watch?" asks Sandoval.

Tim turns around and sees the whole fucking team looking back at him. "Uh—"

"Yeah," says Hector. His eyes are doing that creepy shining thing again. Tim thinks the mask might be making it worse. "This should be shared."

"Let's just check with the guy in the tub, okay?" Tim steps over to Bumgarner, lowers his voice. "I can probably kick them out, if you want?"

Bumgarner breaks off humming some country song—is that his fucking walk-up music?—and shakes his head. "Let them stay, whatever. No pictures!"

Romo sticks his phone back in his pocket and knocks Panik's phone out of his hand.

"Move, Tim, you're in my way." Hector's trying to set candles in a ring around the tub, with the next one going where Tim's standing. "Go give the team something to do?"

"I don't know what to do with them," hisses Tim.

"Remember the rain delay counter-charm?" Hector smiles. "That was fun, do something like that."

"That wasn't magic," says Tim.

"What?" Bumgarner looks up. "You ruined my boots for nothing?"

"There's magic and magic," says Hector. "Tim, come on."

Tim approaches the team, who give him looks of awe or amusement, depending on the guy. Tim straightens his back and looks each of them in the eye.

"We need all hands on deck," he says. "Sandoval, go get that pair of Bumgarner's cowboy boots you stole. Everyone else, if you've got lucky socks or underwear or anything else, bring them over. If you've got a piece of equipment I've charmed that's worked well for you, bring it."

Everyone goes scrambling, until it's just Tim Hudson standing there, watching Hector light the candles.

"Should it be me in that tub?" ask Hudson. His face looks a little strange in the firelight.

"I don't know," says Tim. "Do you think you need it?"

Hudson doesn't say anything. The firelight flickers, and Tim recognizes Hudson's face from the mirror. 

It's painful to look at, from this angle. Painful, but like an old scar, not a new wound. Tim can feel himself changing as he stands, and maybe Hector was right. There's magic and magic.

"Let's get the stuff in there," he says to Hector. They open baggies and dump in the bat shards, ball and glove scraps, the vulture feathers. Bumgarner just keeps playing with his duck, trying to ignore the whole situation.

"Last thing," says Hector, and pulls a baggie from his pocket. Inside glimmer two World Series rings that look very familiar.

"Are those mine?" asks Tim.

Hector tosses one and then the other into the tub, where they clank.

"Seriously, did you break into my apartment?"

"Diego and me, we're tight," says Hector. "He let me in."

Bumgarner nudges one of the rings with his big toe.

"Why couldn't you use your ring?" asks Tim.

"I've only got one," says Hector. "With two, you get that even year magic. Gotta be yours."

"Bumgarner's got two," says Tim.

"You're not using my rings in your bizarre rituals," says Bumgarner. 

"There are like five guys who have both rings," says Tim.

"I don't know any of their door guys," says Hector.

"Can we get moving on this?" asks Bumgarner. "I got other stuff to do today."

Hector produces a ziploc full of dirt, scoops a little of the bathwater into the bag and starts sloshing it around. Over his shoulder, Tim can see the team returned with all their stuff, bats and gloves and the broken-down cowboy boots that emphatically do not fit Sandoval. Only one more thing.

"Rally caps, guys!" 

Every single player solemnly turns his hat upside-down. Bumgarner reaches up to turn his hat over too, but Tim shakes his head.

"Trust me, you're gonna want the protection."

"Why?" asks Bumgarner, and Hector dumps the mud over him.

"Aw, shit," squeals Bumgarner, and Tim doesn't even bother to hide his smile. Smiling is probably part of the magic. "Did you get any in my hair? Ali did my hair today, and—"

"You owe the grounds crew fifty," says Hector. "Tim?"

"Fill yourself with baseball," says Tim. "Fill yourself with mindfulness..."

Bumgarner's eyes are wide and incredulous, rubber duck completely forgotten. At the doorway there's a yelp as Romo, self-appointed enforcer, slaps another phone out of Crawford's hand.

"Are you listening, Madison?"

Bumgarner doesn't say anything until Hector gently knees him in the back of the head, smearing mud on his jeans.

"Yeah," says Bumgarner. "I'm listening."

Maybe, thinks Tim, maybe it doesn't matter that this isn't what he wanted to do with his life. Maybe it doesn't have to compete with the pitching, and maybe he doesn't care that he's good at this stuff even though he doesn't want to be. Maybe the magic is just part of the game, and the game is always worthwhile.

He's not quite there yet. But maybe next year, he will be.

"Take this symbol from the universal force," says Tim as Hector offers the disgusting wad of Big League Chew. "Take it into the core of your being."

"I am _not_ —" starts Bumgarner, and Hector just shoves it into Bumgarner's open mouth.

There's a terrifying moment when Tim thinks he's going to have to do the Heimlich or something, and then Bumgarner swallows hard, coughs, swallows again.

The team erupts into cheers.

"I'm going to get you for this," says Bumgarner.

"Only if we lose," says Tim.

They don't lose. Bumgarner gets food poisoning three days later and doesn't care, nobody cares. Tim is going to ride this wave for the rest of his life.

Hector rides the wave right back onto the 2015 roster. Tim's fucking ecstatic.


	15. Spring training, 2015

[ ](http://www.sfchronicle.com/giants/article/Giants-beat-Rotation-setup-begins-in-Cactus-6109174.php)

"So, is Lincecum starting?"

"He's in the rotation," says Bochy. "We'll see how it goes."

"What about Sanchez, is he still in?"

"We'll see," says Bochy. "We want him to stay healthy, we'll see how it goes."

"Is that battery going to—"

"We'll see," says Bochy. "We'll see. They're both team players and that's important to the whole club."

The reporters look confused, but Bochy just stares out into the distance.

"Can't discount that," he says. "You always need team players."

"What the hell is he talking about?" mutters one reporter to another.

"Probably drugs," says the other reporter.

"If that's what it takes to get good Lincecum back," says the first reporter. "Whatever."


End file.
